


Palisade of Glass

by yourlocalai



Series: The Otherworld Series [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Druids, Ensemble Cast, Episode: s04e01-02 The Darkest Hour, Grief/Mourning, Immortal Merlin, Multi, Temporary Character Death, The Catha
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2019-08-19
Packaged: 2019-09-23 17:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17084975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourlocalai/pseuds/yourlocalai
Summary: Merlin succeeded in sacrificing himself to the Cailleach, but death was never meant for him and the consequences of his decision are more far reaching than he could have imagined.Camelot is left on the brink of ruin in the wake of the Dorocha, and there is no time to mourn as Arthur is left to pick up the pieces of his kingdom. With magic running wild and a famine looming on the horizon, he'll have to pull the fractured remains of his Round Table together again if he wants to save his people, and possibly the greatest friend he's ever known.





	1. Chapter 1

They held a funeral in the courtyard.

The councilors objected. _Improper_ they said, for a mere serving boy to be given honors befitting a knight.

“Everyone in this kingdom owes their life to his sacrifice,” Arthur said, gaze steely and voice flat. “That includes everyone in this room. I will see that honored.”

In place of a body, Gaius brought one of Merlin’s neckerchiefs for the pyre. It was one of the blue ones, well cared for despite its obvious age, and Gaius’s fingers lingered over the rough material as he gently laid it out on the wood, just below the standard bearing Camelot’s coat of arms Arthur had set aside for the occasion. Gaius was bent low with grief, and he glanced at no one as he shuffled back to Gwen's side, looking older and more frail than Arthur had ever seen. Gwen clasped his hand, providing the support Arthur could not.

The townsfolk had turned out in force, and they all turned expectantly to him as he stepped forward to begin his speech.

“Today we pay tribute to Merlin, a loyal servant of Camelot and a friend to many of you here today,” he began. The words felt heavy and awkward on his tongue, and he was sharply aware of the many well received speeches Merlin had written for him in the past. But it was for Merlin he now spoke, and he would give nothing less than his best.

“He will live on in Camelot’s memory not only for the unpayable debt we now owe him, but for his courage, his kindness, and his gentleness of spirit.”

Many of the people gathered had started weeping, and Arthur wondered how many of them had known Merlin. Merlin was free to wander the town in ways Arthur wasn’t, to speak to these people as equals. How many of them had stories to tell that Arthur would never hear? Was it for grief they cried, or relief they had been spared?

“He gave his life for all of us, and we will remember!”

A torch appeared at his shoulder, brought forth by a servant Arthur didn’t have the heart to acknowledge. He took it and, with only the briefest of hesitations, tossed it onto the pyre. The flames rose high and hot quickly with no flesh or bone to eat through, washing over Arthur like dragon’s breath. The neckerchief was consumed in seconds. Gaius excused himself not long after.

The crowd dispersed soon after the pyre started the slow process of collapsing in on itself, returning to their own funerals and celebrations. It wasn’t long before only he, Gwen and the knights remained. Percival, Elyan, and Leon all had their heads bowed respectfully. Gwaine’s face was twisted into an ugly grimace in an effort to hold back the tears Gwen and Lancelot let flow freely.

He let their grief lash at him, forced himself to bear witness to the consequences of his failure until he could bear no more and, like a coward, retreated to his chambers.

No one saw him for the rest of the day.

—

_Arthur could hear the surf beating against the shore. He was swaddled in grey, grey blankets of linen and wool leading to the grey drapes of his bed, and beyond a grey sky bleeding into the grey sea. An overwhelming sense of dread hung heavy in the mist, so thick Arthur felt he would choke on it with every breath._

_He wasn’t at all surprised to see Merlin by his bedside, standing steady despite the water sloshing about his knees. Bits of sea foam were clinging to his trousers and the tips of his fingers, shining white like oversized pearls. Draped across his shoulders was a knight’s cloak in Camelot red, its hem in tatters held aloft as tiny red fish darting along the water’s surface. He was smiling gently, Arthur’s own clothes held in his hands._

_“You’ll be late to council if you don’t hurry,” he said, holding out the clothes. Sitting up, Arthur took them._

_The wooden bedframe was starting to creak under the strain of resisting the push of the waves. The water had risen to Merlin’s waist, more and more fish swimming around him as the cloak sank further beneath the waves._ It must be heavy _, he thought idly, imagining the weight of the clasp digging into his throat._

_“Get out of the water you dolt,” he said, pulling his legs up to make room. The blankets would be soaked, but suddenly nothing seemed more important than getting Merlin away from the rising tide. He could always make Merlin wash them later._

_Merlin ignored him, turning instead to look at the horizon._ _“Should I get your armor ready?” he asked, still smiling out at nothing. “It’s nice weather for training. The knights will be pleased.”_

_“I want you to do as you’re told and get up here,” Arthur said, frustration bolstered by fear ringing in his voice. If he could just sit up he could reach out and drag Merlin to safety, but the cloak weighing his head down proved too much for him to fight. Red crept into his vision as the dye bled onto the linens, lines of pigment making their way down the fabric like so many tiny rivers, flowing up his shirt and spilling onto his skin. His hands were scrabbling at his throat, his breath coming in short, panicked wheezes as he searched for a clasp, a chain, anything to cast the weight off._

_The bed lost its battle against the waves, the legs snapping as it was set adrift._

_“Merlin!” Arthur was helpless as he was carried away, too far, too fast to stop it. Merlin turned his gaze back towards Arthur at his shout, but made no move otherwise. Couldn’t he see the danger? The water was up to his chest now, each wave cresting above his mouth and nose, giving him only short moments to breathe. Arthur was thrashing now, desperate to kick away the phantom hands holding him down. Through it all Merlin just stood there, still smiling as the water rose higher and higher, until between one moment and the next he was gone._

"No!"

Arthur sat up with a strangled gasp, still struggling to reach Merlin even as the nightmare dissolved before his eyes. The grey sea became the grey stone of his chambers, dimly lit in the pre-dawn light seeping through his windows, and he was very much alone.

Letting out a shaky sigh, he pressed the heels of his palms down hard onto his eyes and watched the grainy patterns swirl until he felt steady enough to rise. His throat was scraped raw, and an uncomfortable sense of shame washed over him as he realized he’d been crying out in his sleep. At least he’d sent his guards away. No need to bring everyone running over nothing.

The room was freezing without even a few embers warming the fireplace, and his skin started to prickle as the fear sweat dried. Grimacing in disgust, he ignored the chill and threw back the covers, once again the fine silks and velvets he was accustomed to, and used the shallow basin left on his nightstand to wash. It didn’t leave him feeling much cleaner, but even if a warm bath were possible now he wouldn’t have called for one. Not when a stranger would have delivered it.

Returning to bed held no appeal, so he toweled himself dry as quickly as he could and dressed, his fingers trembling slightly as he did up the laces. It was sloppy work. They’d come undone before long, but he found he didn’t care enough to redo them. A sudden, nervous energy propelled him to the door, urged him out before he could focus on all the little details betraying Merlin’s absence. They were piling up by the hour, and getting harder to ignore.

But this was his castle, he could find a distraction.

—

The armory was deserted, everything freshly polished and laid out in neat rows by servants the night before. He’d set out from his chambers with no particular destination in mind, but he wasn’t surprised when he ended up here. The training grounds had often served as a place of refuge in his life. A cold comfort, but a faithful one.

He grabbed a wooden training sword from the far wall and made his way to the practice dummies, his breath steaming in the chill morning air. It was easy to lose himself in drills for a while, letting the familiar rhythm of footwork sequences and the ache in his arms carry him away. No one came to disturb him, the only sound echoing across the grounds the dull _thwack_ of wood on straw.

The sun’s light crested the castle walls suddenly some time later, blinding him as it hit. Rather than the solid blow to the neck he’d intended, his sword glanced off the dummy’s shoulder and clattered to the ground, a sharp pain flaring in his wrist as the hilt was wrenched from his grasp. The world came flooding back to him, and he realized he was panting. His fingers had gone numb, stiff and swollen in the cold, as had his feet. Bits of frost glinted off the neckline of his shirt where his sweat had frozen, and now that he was still his shivers were growing worse by the second.

Even so, he didn’t really want to go back inside. He could smell fresh bread on the breeze, hear the patter of children running to pick up the day’s loaf for their family. Chickens were squawking as their morning feed was tossed out, and the creaking of cart wheels passed him by as merchants brought their wares to the market. He didn’t often see the city in the early hours, or hear it in this case, but it was nice. Comforting to know his people were resilient. Merlin would have appreciated that.

 _Breathe in. Out. In._ Grief was not unknown to him. He’d seen many good men die, gotten many of them killed with his own decisions. After Morgana he thought he’d truly learned to master it, known how to keep moving through the worst the world could throw at him.

He was wrong.

Footsteps crunching in the sand drew him out of the stupor he’d slipped into. He whirled around, retrieving his wooden sword in one smooth motion and brandishing it as if it were sharpened steel, as if it would do any good against the phantoms he still half expected to see around every corner. A woman let out a little squeak of surprise as Arthur turned on her, the contents of the plate she held wobbling dangerously as she jumped.

“Guinevere!”

Arthur dropped the sword. For one, horrifying moment he could see a future where he’d actually reached out and struck her.

“I apologize,” he said, stricken, knowing it was written all over his face. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” Guinevere smiled, but wouldn’t quite meet his eyes.

“That’s all right, my lord. I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

Her eyes were puffy and red, and the thought of her crying into the early hours of the morning, alone with her grief twisted something inside of him. He might as well have struck her, for all the good he’d ever done her.

She seemed to remember the plate she carried all of a sudden, thrusting it out towards him so it nearly hit his chest. It was filled with food, soft bread and fresh sausages still smoking. He hadn’t eaten since lunch yesterday. It should probably make him hungry.

“I heard you were out here and I figured you hadn’t eaten anything yet and I thought, well, I didn’t want it to get cold,” she pressed her lips together in that way she did when she wanted to force herself to be quiet. She didn’t often censure herself around him these days. It left him feeling off balance, unsure what to say in return.

She pressed the plate a little closer to him and he startled, reaching out to take it on reflex.

“Thank you, Guinevere. That was —” Merlin’s job, “— very kind of you.”

They languished in silence for a time. He should say something, anything. Offer her comfort, ask if she needed anything, tell her how sorry he was he’d failed to keep Merlin safe, but the words stuck in his throat. What comfort could he give when he was responsible for her suffering? How could he give her hope for the future when he couldn’t see it for himself. In the end he never had the chance to find out. He’d let the silence last too long.

“Forgive me Sire,” she said, dropping into a shallow curtsy. “I should see to Gaius before it grows much later.”

Arthur watched her go, a hollow feeling in his chest.

—

The castle halls were alive with activity when he returned from the training yard. He passed his breakfast off to a passing serving girl, told her to share it with whoever she chose. It would only be wasted if it stayed with him. He spread word amongst the servants that his councilors were to be sent to the great hall at their earliest convenience, meaning now, before returning to his chambers to change out of his sweat damp and dirty clothes. Eventually he’d need a new manservant to help with his mail shirt and the other bits of finery he was expected to wear, but for now the council would need to be forgiving. That was a bridge he’d cross when he was forced to, and not a moment before.

Agravaine was already there when Arthur arrived, as were a handful of others, looking none too pleased at their meal being cut short. Lord Alden had brought his plate with him.

“Arthur!” Agravaine called out, striding up to clasp him on the shoulder. “We should be ready to begin shortly. Is everything all right?”

“Fine, Uncle,” Arthur said, trying not to lean into his touch like a child. “But I’d rather not delay when so much needs doing.”

“Of course.” They moved to the head of the long table, Agravaine a steadying presence at his left shoulder. He was keenly aware of the void to his right.

It wasn’t long before the last of the council members drifted in and the idle chatter filling the great hall quieted, all of them turning expectantly to him.

“We should begin with the state of the city,” he said, proud that no exhaustion seeped into his voice. “Sir Leon, have the dead been numbered?”

“Not entirely, Sire.” He shuffled through the papers strewn in front of him before pulling out a single sheaf. “Twenty-one knights perished in the attack, as did fifty-seven guardsmen. Lady Arlette, Lord Edric, and Lord Ormod are those from the nobility.” The others shifted in their seats at these names, keeping their eyes away from the empty spaces among them. “We have sent word to their holdings, but have yet to hear any replies.”

“And the townspeople?” Arthur asked, already dreading the answer. Leon looked as if he'd swallowed something sour.

“Among the castle servants, thirty-four, including five of the cooks. As for the rest of the city, not everyone has been fully accounted for, but the dead currently number more than six-hundred.”

Murmurings broke out around the table at that number, and Arthur felt sick. Seven-hundred dead, at least. It was better than he’d feared, but still significantly worse than he’d hoped.

Leon continued, voice raised slightly over the din. “The wood shortage is still our most pressing problem. We no longer have enough to burn all of the dead without consuming our stock for the winter.”

An unpleasant situation to be in. Wood would be invaluable when the snows started falling, and Arthur knew he wasn’t the only one growing tired of the pervasive cold in the castle. But digging so many graves would be backbreaking work that they had neither the time nor the manpower for. “Send out more men into the forests, take volunteers from the townspeople, as many as are needed. Collect as much as you can, and advise the people to be sparing with what they have. For now we’ll focus on burning the dead. First frost is still weeks away, I won’t risk a plague in the meantime by leaving the dead until spring.”

Leon nodded, and though there was some grumbling from the councilors no one objected.

“What of the survivors, how are they faring?”

“Well, for the most part. Most of the injuries were minor, accidents during the panic. But there are many among the children and elderly with no one left to care for them.”

Orphans then. It was to be expected in an attack of this size, but it kindled the fury burning inside him as little else could. No one was more innocent than a child. Morgana had known that once.

“Open up the guest wings, we’ll house them here until permanent homes can be found for them among the people.”

“And if we haven’t the space?” Lady Nelda asked.

“Then we will make use of empty houses in town, but bringing them here will at least let us take stock of the problem. Fit as many to a room as possible. Keep the beds for the elderly, bedrolls for the children. Have the Steward make arrangements for meals and supplies.”

“I will see to it, Sire.”

“Anything else?”

Lady Udele leaned forward to speak. “The tax collectors from Eofham have yet to return, and I am certain they are not the only ones.” Several of the others nodded, and Arthur heard the names Asgorath and Daelbeth mentioned, all the lands closest to the Isle of the Blessed.

“Then we have lost some of the harvest.”

“We’ve lost livestock too,” Lord Patton said. “Impossible to say for certain, but I wouldn’t be surprised if half the cows were dead.”

Cries of dismay greeted that news, echoing among the rafters until even the glass in the windows seemed to shake with their force. Lord Alden had even slammed his palms down onto the table, as if to attack Lord Patton for daring to bring such news to the table. 

“Enough!” he called, his voice slicing through the din like a blade. The councilors quieted down immediately, looking abashed at their own lack of decorum. “I don't believe the Dorocha were targeting livestock the way they did people. I'm sure most of them are simply wandering without a handler, but even if they are not, we will _count_ them before making a claim like that." That last bit was said with a pointed stare at Lord Patton, who glanced away with what might have been shame. 

Tension simmered just underneath the silence that had fallen over the room, made worse when Leon cleared his throat. He flushed slightly when all eyes swung to him, but remained unbowed under the weight of their stares. Arthur admired him for it. “There's more, Sire. Refugees have arrived in the city from all over the kingdom. Many of them claim they are too few to continue working the fields.”

 _Never give in to despair_. His father had told him that once, years ago. _You are a pillar of strength for your people, you must always act like it._ His mind wandered to the king’s chambers where his father still sat, unseeing of the world around him, and wondered when he’d abandoned his own advice.

“Then we are facing a famine,” he said, voice grim. A lessened harvest this year, and a potentially disastrous one the next. The tension had stretched nearly to breaking point, and if he couldn't regain control of the room he feared they may actually come to blows. 

“We will start rationing immediately, no exceptions," he said, his voice ringing loud and steady across the room. His councilors seemed grateful to have something to focus on. "How many of you have had contact with your estates?” Only three raised their hands. “Then reestablishing contact is our first priority. Send out riders across the kingdom to meet with the acting Lords, I want to know exactly how many villages were lost and how many people displaced.”

Distantly, he was aware that if the refugees had come here for protection rather than to their own manors it was because their Lords had none to offer. It didn’t bode well, but he’d make no assumptions until he had more information.

“It will be a massive effort, but we need to start grouping and relocating the refugees as soon as possible, get them back to the farms.” It seemed almost cruel, to take people who had lost everything and toss them into a poor imitation of their former life, and he thought suddenly of Drea, a young girl with neither home nor loved ones left. But they had no choice. Without those farms, the kingdom would fall in less than a year to starvation and riots, if they were lucky.

“Sir Leon, I’ll leave the patrols to you. I know this is a lot to organize, take what you need to see it done.”

“Of course, Sire.” Leon bowed and made his exit, looking as tired as Arthur felt. He shouldn’t be doing this on his own, it was Arthur who should be reaching out to the people, showing them their Prince hadn’t abandoned them. Now more than ever he felt the weight of his regency around his shoulders. It wasn’t his responsibility to carry out the king’s decisions any longer, it was his responsibility to make them.

“If there are any other concerns,” he said when the door had closed behind Leon, “now is the time to share.”

—

Arthur’s chambers were clean.

It was well into the evening now, of course someone would have come to do it, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that anyone other than Merlin would be in this space. Someone who was not Merlin had changed his sweat dampened sheets, scrubbed his floors, and lit the candles scattered throughout the room. It looked much the same as it always did, a bit tidier than Merlin usually managed perhaps but not unrecognizably so, yet it felt like the last traces of his best friend had been wiped away, never to be seen again. The sight of it hit him like a blow.

He wanted to turn around, find an unused chamber anywhere else in the castle and make it his so he never had to come back here again, but he forced himself to close the door gently behind him. It was too cold to walk barefoot across the stone without a fire warming the room, so he left his boots on as he made his way to the wardrobe. Merlin would have yelled at him for tracking dirt across the floor, and he found himself dragging his feet as he went, leaving faint scuff marks behind.

The first shirt he grabbed wasn’t warm enough so he let it flutter to the floor, grabbing another in its place, and another, and another, scattering them all around him until none were left. Merlin always organized his clothes in a particular way, he’d appreciate the chance to re-do it. It took him a moment to realize the pain in his chest was his heart pounding. The blood rushing through his head deafened him, and the skin of his arms had bunched where his muscles were coiled tight underneath. It felt almost like the battle madness he’d succumbed to in his younger years, and it was just as uncontrollable.

He knocked the papers on his desk out of their neat piles, half of them spilling to the floor and being trampled under foot. The bed covers were next, thrown with all his might clear across the room. He knocked over a candle stand and watched the flames disintegrate as they fell, tore tapestries from the wall, kicked baskets and emptied drawers, anything and everything he could get his hands on he destroyed. Merlin would be furious. He’d be so furious, throwing pillows at Arthur as he ranted about all the extra work but he’d be back, of course he would, Arthur just had to give him enough to do. 

He came back to himself at the fireplace, wanting to scatter ashes over the hearth but finding it empty. His breathing was harsh and ragged, mouth dry and lips chapped, his hand clamped around the metal grate so tightly his fingers had gone numb. His palm ached as he peeled his hand away, and he used the pain to steady himself as he turned disbelieving eyes on the ruin of his chambers. A candle had rolled over to the window, and he was abruptly brought back to that last night at the castle. Merlin had looked so afraid.

Arthur should never have let him come.

The servants would talk if they saw his chambers in this state. Word would spread that their Prince Regent was little more than a boy who threw tantrums when things got difficult, now when he most needed to be strong, so he steadied himself and started to clean.

He wouldn’t have slept anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

Tears slipped down Gwen’s face during her journey from the training field to Gaius’s tower. If she had the energy, she might have been grateful no one commented on them.

Rationally, she knew she wasn’t the only one to have suffered, that most everyone in the city had lost loved ones, but still it felt like heavy iron bars had clamped down on her every side, locking her away from the people around her. She could feel the flush in her cheeks, and wondered if it was from embarrassment, anger, or grief. She had trouble telling these days. Detangling her own emotions had proven too much for her.

She didn’t know what she’d been thinking, going to see Arthur when he clearly wanted to be alone. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. She’d known what she’d _wanted_. She’d wanted someone to share in her grief, she’d wanted to throw her arms around him and tell him how grateful she was he’d returned safely, and she’d wanted him to tell her the same. She’d always known it was Merlin that brought out the man in Arthur she’d fallen in love with, Merlin who’d taught him how to care and how to let others see it. And she was starting to realize how much it was Merlin who’d inspired her to speak her mind in ways she never would have dared.

How quickly they fell back into old habits.

The door to Gaius’s chambers was ajar. She dried her face as best she could before peering inside.

“Gaius?”

No answer. Pushing the door open fully, she stepped into an empty chamber. His bed was undisturbed in the corner, the fireplace cold and the cauldron above it empty. Books were still strewn over his table from the frantic nights of research, burned down candles sitting in hardened pools of their own wax. Despite the mess, she’d never seen the physician’s chambers look so still.

The door at the back of the room creaked open slowly. Merlin’s rooms.

Gaius appeared in the doorway, looking like he hadn’t slept at all.

“Gwen,” he said softly, placing a steadying hand on the wall as he descended the steps. Gwen rushed to help him. “Something I can do for you?”

“I came to ask you the same thing,” she said, bracing his weight against her shoulder until he’d made it safely down the stairs. He didn’t answer, staring out at his rooms with empty eyes.

“Gaius?” she asked gently, squeezing his arm. That startled some life back into him, a deep, shuddering breath leaving his chest.

“Well,” he said at last, “I suppose I could use some help cleaning this place up.”

They moved over to his workspace and set about reorganizing it in silence, Gwen scraping up candle wax and setting it aside to be melted down and reformed later. The books were more of a challenge, many of them in a language she couldn’t even read, but Gaius’s eyes had glazed over, staring at his own hands as if he didn’t recognize them. She did the best she could on her own, stacking piles based on subject for those she could read, pictures for those she could not.

“I need to write to Hunith,” Gaius said suddenly, his voice breathy and paper thin. “I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

Gwen’s heart sank, the papers in her hands fluttering back to the table. How could she have forgotten about Merlin’s mother, about her generosity and the kind smile she shared with her son? Was that day in Ealdor all those years ago the last time they’d seen each other?

“He was so certain it had to be him,” he continued, sounding almost angry. “Why should he have paid the price for my mistakes?”

“Gaius!” she cried, outrage on his behalf raising her voice. “None of this was your doing. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen, none of us could.”

His eyes fell closed, a weak, bitter laugh escaping him. She’d never heard him make a sound like that. “I was responsible for Uther, and that makes me responsible for Morgana.”

She’d expected the mention of Morgana to hurt, braced herself for the flash of pain that always came, but all she felt was numb. Morgana had visited too much suffering on them all for Gwen to ever again remember the girl she’d been with fondness.

“No one is responsible for Morgana but herself,” she said, so coldly she startled herself with it, but Gaius shook his head sadly.

“I fear that isn’t true. There was much that could have been done differently.”

She didn’t know what to say to that, so she reached out to take his hand and said, “I could write to Hunith, if you’d like.”

He looked surprised at that, turning to look her in the eye for the first time since she’d arrived. “No, my dear girl,” he said, once again the kindly old man she was most familiar with. “That is my responsibility, I should not have placed my burdens on you.”

“I came here to help,” she said weakly, and Gaius drew her into a hug.

“And who is helping you? You look exhausted Gwen.”

Leaning on him for support was the last thing she should be doing, but she’d been caught off guard by just how fiercely she missed her father’s comfort in the wake of the funeral, and Gaius had always been so kind to her. It felt so nice to have someone hold her, just for a bit.

She did her best to keep her tears at bay, but knew Gaius could feel her shoulders trembling. He said nothing, only rubbing her back as she cried into his shoulder, and she could feel the occasional tear drip onto her hair.

Some time later, when her tears had run dry and and the sun was shining brightly through the windows, she felt Gaius pulling on the cord she wore around her neck.

“What’s this?”

“Oh,” she said, pulling back to show him the pendant attached to it. “Merlin made it for me years ago.” She smiled softly at the memory. “It was a birthday gift.”

“It’s hideous,” Gaius said, and a surprised, watery laugh burst out of her. It really was rather ugly. He’d given it to her not long after they’d first met, when he hadn’t the money to buy her a gift. He’d carved it himself, and he’d been so sweet about it Gwen could never have refused it. Until now it had hung above her bed, a good luck charm as she slept.

“I think it’s supposed to be a bird,” she said, and Gaius started to chuckle, reaching up to wipe at his red and swollen eyes. “I’m not sure, I never asked.”

He picked the pendant up and twisted it around, admiring it. “Well,” he said, “perhaps it was a merlin.”

—

There was only so much time she could spend with Gaius before it became clear he’d rather be alone. Though braving the rest of the castle was an intimidating prospect, it would be cruel to deny him privacy in his mourning. She left, shutting the door quietly behind her.

Gaius’s chambers were spacious enough that it was easy to forget how secluded they were. She hadn’t gone twenty paces from his door before she could hear the commotion coming from the main corridor. Rounding the corner, she nearly collided with a small boy running down the hall. She stumbled as he grabbed her dress for balance and used it to push himself forward.

“Sorry Miss!” he called out, never slowing to look at her.

Regaining her footing, she ducked back into the side corridor she’d just come from before she could be swept up into the crowd. Not even during tourneys was the castle this crowded, a solid wall of people blocking the way forward. Many of them were servants, but most of them were not, townspeople in ragged clothing carrying sacks of belongings thrown over their shoulders. There were more children as well, weaving a path through the legs of the adults surrounding them as they rushed forward. They were all moving in the same direction.

“Gwen!” She was being hugged before she’d even heard the shout, and it took her a moment to match Mirna’s voice to the pin straight, black hair brushing against her cheek. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Oh Gwen, I’m so sorry about Merlin.”

Merlin’s name cut through her disorientation, and she clenched her teeth tightly to stave off a fresh round of tears, her eyes still sore from weeping not an hour ago. She nodded against Mirna’s shoulder in acknowledgment, but was unwilling to linger on the topic.

“What’s going on?” she asked instead. Mirna pulled back.

“You haven’t heard? Prince Arthur opened up the guest wings for the refugees this morning. They’re coming faster than we can get them ready though, I think the Steward might collapse before the day’s over.” She said it as if she were sharing some great secret, but Gwen hardly heard her.

“He did?”

She didn’t know why she found that so surprising, Arthur had always cared for the wellbeing of his people. But he'd looked so lost that morning, quiet and withdrawn, she'd feared he might forget about everyone depending on him. It was reassuring to know that even in grief he was a better man than his uncle.

“He could have waited a day, we’ll be run ragged in a week at this rate. There’s too many of them.” Mirna gestured back out into the main hall, where dozens were still marching slowly past. Gwen felt a spark of temper rise in her chest and had to work to remind herself that Mirna was only just out of girlhood, and all her family had survived.

“They’re scared Mirna, and they have nowhere else to go. It’s our duty to help.”

Mirna pouted, but didn’t press the point.

“Come on,” Gwen said. “I’ll help too.”

—

By the end of the day, Gwen could see Mirna’s point. The refugees seemed endless.

For every room Gwen helped prepare ten came to fill it, with more always behind. There weren’t enough chamber pots to go around, and she felt for the poor servants who’d been tasked with carrying them around for use right out in the hall. Undignified business, but after an entire day stuck inside most were willing to bear it, especially those with young children. They’d run out of bedrolls hours ago, and had settled for lugging rugs and tapestries out of storage to pad the stone. The servants had been working since early in the morning, and there was work enough left to last through the night. Exhaustion was starting to set in. They wouldn’t be able to keep this pace up for much longer.

Strictly speaking it wasn’t Gwen’s job to assist the servants any longer, but they were short staffed enough that no one ever questioned her being there. The work was comforting at least, if only in its familiarity, and in truth she needed the distraction.

 _He was so certain it had to be him_ , Gaius had said. The more time passed since her conversation with Gaius that morning, the more she turned his words over in her mind. Merlin couldn’t have known what would happen to him, could he? Finding the source of the Dorocha had been a desperate gamble, one last chance to go on the offensive before they were completely overrun. No one had known what the outcome would be. And even if they had a plan, because in truth she couldn’t imagine Arthur setting out without some kind of plan, the Dorocha had killed hundreds, maybe even thousands. Why would any one death have made a difference?

A sour taste coated her tongue at thinking of Merlin as just another of the dead, nothing more than a single drop in a river. It felt like disrespecting his memory somehow, but even so she couldn’t stop her thoughts now that they’d begun. Because what else could Gaius have meant? Clearly his death _had_ made a difference. The Dorocha had disappeared so suddenly, and Arthur made it very clear they had Merlin to thank for that at his funeral. Her mind flashed back to the books she had helped to organize, pages upon pages of magical creatures and their strengths and weaknesses. If anyone had known how to defeat them it would have been Gaius, and if Gaius had known Merlin surely would have as well. But Gaius would never have kept that information from Arthur, and if she was sure of anything it was that Arthur would never have let Merlin go if he’d thought him in any more danger there than at the citadel.

He hadn’t even said goodbye.

The grief that came with that thought was so strong it was like a physical blow, robbing her of breath. If Merlin had left knowing he was going to die, surely he’d have come to see her, just once. Like Arthur had.

Like pieces of a puzzle falling into place, suddenly she saw that conversation in an entirely new light. She wasn’t a fool, she’d known Arthur was trying to say goodbye, but what she had taken for hopelessness now suddenly seemed like resignation. If Gaius never would have lied to Arthur about someone needing to die, then the obvious answer was that he hadn’t. Arthur had known, and he’d left fully intending to die.

So what changed?

Her theories collapsed in an instant, frustration rising so quickly it nearly brought her to tears. She couldn’t even begin to answer that, she’d spun a story out of nothing and nearly let it carry her away. She had no idea what had happened on the Isle of the Blessed. No one had spoken of it, and under the crushing weight of fresh grief she hadn’t even thought to ask.

Perhaps it was time she did.

—

Despite the new desire for answers burning in her heart, Gwen made no attempt to get away that day. There was too much work to be done, and she didn’t have the heart to leave it to the other servants, especially not when they were so grateful for her help. That, and it gave her a good opportunity to collect her thoughts.

Dark had fallen by the time she made her way back home, and with it came the fear haunting her steps that she couldn’t quite shake. Fear of the Dorocha, of course, but as the days rolled on without them she had nearly stopped jumping at shadows entirely. Instead she remembered waking in Gaius’s chambers with a throbbing head. _Someone meant to do you harm._ They’d come no closer to finding out who was responsible, and she’d remained unharmed ever since, but she pulled her cloak tight around her shoulders and hurried her steps regardless.

Her home was in view before long, and her steps faltered when she saw a faint, flickering light shining out from under her door. Candlelight.

 _Agravaine._ A wild, fearful sort of certainty came with that thought, though she had no idea why he might seek her out. She didn’t even fully understand her fear. Agravaine had been nothing but polite to her, never aggressive or untoward, but something about that night in his chambers had left her uneasy. She could picture him now, making himself at home at her table, and the thought of his fingers rifling through her things was a very unwelcome one. But it was also cold, and she had nowhere else to spend the night. She couldn’t dally in the street forever.

If only she’d left her shutters cracked, she might have felt more prepared as she moved to her door, but as it was she did her best to steady her racing heart before pushing it open with all the confidence she could muster. This was her home, she wouldn’t act like a child sneaking into places she shouldn’t.

The candle sputtered with the draught she brought in, casting disorienting shadows over the walls. She closed the door quickly before the flame could go out. If being alone with Agravaine was bad enough, being alone in the dark would be much worse.

The door slamming shut startled the man lounging at her table, his knees banging against the underside as he jumped up. “Ow,” he muttered, and Gwen’s knees went weak with relief.

“Elyan!”

Of course the Prince’s uncle would never come unattended to a woman’s home in the middle of the night. Of course he wouldn’t wait on her when he could summon her instead. Of course.

“Sorry, I’m sorry!” Elyan said, rubbing his knees as he stood up properly. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I thought you’d be home sooner.”

“What are you doing here?” she asked, and the question came out sharper than she’d intended with the fear still rattling in her chest. It was a fair question though. He rarely came to visit.

“I just…I wanted to make sure you were okay.” It was almost a question, the way he said it, as if he wasn’t quite sure this was acceptable. Gwen felt herself soften at this, her body finally releasing the last of its tension. She didn’t answer him, not having the stomach to lie but knowing honesty would bring her to tears again, so she hung her cloak by the door and moved to the table, sitting heavily on the bench. Elyan reseated himself, careful to leave some space between them. It saddened her a bit, this persistent distance between them, but even if she knew how to bridge it tonight wasn’t the time for it. There were other things on her mind.

“I’m not the one who went to the Isle of the Blessed.” She’d said it to shift the attention off of herself, but as soon as the words left her mouth the very real danger Elyan had been in hit her. She’d been so terrified for Arthur, and then so lost in her grief to even consider that her brother might never have come home.

Elyan didn’t seem to notice her rush of guilt. “I’m fine, just a few scratches,” he said, rubbing at his arm where Gwen could see bandages pressing against his sleeve. “Gwen I—” She brought a hand up sharply to silence him, unable to listen to more condolences. She was already so tired of crying.

Elyan seemed to understand, changing directions quickly. “I know you knew him longer than I did,” he said softly, “but he was a good man.” Gwen’s jaw trembled despite her best efforts, and her eyes went to the flowers on her counter top that had finally started to wilt. Merlin had picked those for her the last time he’d gathered herbs for Gaius, as he did every time he left the city. She’d never come home to find a fresh batch waiting for her again. They would never spend another meal together, talking away the evening in a quite part of the castle they’d made their own, or spend an afternoon in companionable silence as they went about their chores. She’d never see his smile or hear his laugh again because he was dead and Morgana was the one who killed him and none of this was _fair_.

“What happened to him?” She barely got the words out, but she had to know. Elyan looked down.

“I don’t know,” he said, and Gwen’s hopes came crashing down. “He was already gone when I got there.”

They sat in silence as Gwen battled with her disappointment. Of course it was foolish to think she’d get answers out of the first person she asked. She shouldn’t have let her hopes rise so quickly.

“Did you know?” she asked. If he could give her no other answers then he could at least tell her this much. She had to believe he wouldn’t lie about this.

His confusion was clear on his face. “Did you know he was going to die?” she clarified, her tongue tripping over the final word. Merlin was dead. It was the first time she’d acknowledged it out loud.

“No!” he said, looking genuinely shocked. Gwen breathed out in relief.

Elyan’s expression went from shocked to hurt, his brows drawing together and the corners of his mouth turning down. “Did you really think I wouldn’t try to save him?”

“No, it’s not that, it’s just…” How could she explain it in a way that made sense? A few sentences from an elderly, grieving man clearly not in his right mind were hardly damning proof, and there were many things about Gaius and Merlin’s lives together that she didn’t know. He could have been talking about anything.

If only she could make herself believe that.

“It’s something Gaius said. I can’t stop thinking about it…I think he knew.”

She felt foolish as soon as the words left her mouth, expecting Elyan to wave away her suspicions. If he had, maybe she could have put this all behind her, found her peace in never knowing, but instead he looked thoughtful and faintly worried.

“Elyan?”

“Arthur would never let Merlin get hurt,” he said with conviction, and Gwen’s heart started to race.

“Did he say something?” Elyan bit his lip, and Gwen reached out to grasp his wrist, her grip tight with desperation. “Please Elyan, don’t leave me out of this. He was my friend.”

Elyan sighed. “Arthur seemed off most of the journey, sad.” He looked down at his lap as he spoke, picking at a loose thread in his trousers. “When I told him he could trust us with whatever was on his mind, he told me 'the burden was his to bear.' That’s it.”

“He knew he was going to die,” she said softly. It wasn’t the confirmation she was looking for, but she was certain she was right. It was the only thing that made sense.

Elyan yanked his arm away. “You can’t really believe that,” he said, looking outraged. He’d always done righteous anger well. “Arthur was worried sick about Merlin, he wouldn’t —”

“No, not Merlin,” she interrupted. “I think it was supposed to be Arthur, and Merlin took his place. Somehow.”

Elyan deflated. “Took his place in what?”

A heavy sigh gusted out of her, and she wrapped her arms tight around her middle. “I don’t know. I only know that we’re missing something, and that’s all I can think of.”

“He could have been talking about the kingdom,” Elyan said, which was true enough. The welfare of the people had always been a burden weighing heavily on Arthur’s shoulders, but she got the feeling he’d been referring to something specific.

“Did he say why you were going to the Isle of the Blessed?” The question was out before she’d even fully considered it, and she was surprised to realize she didn’t know the answer. She’d assumed it was to find the source of the Dorocha because that’s what everyone had assumed, but no one had actually told her why they were looking there specifically.

“He said that’s where Morgana cast her spell. Seemed as good a place as any to start looking to me.”

She’d known it was Morgana’s spell, of course. That bit of news had spread like wildfire through the kingdom, and Arthur had never tried to deny it, but it hadn’t occurred to her that they might actually be trying to find her.

“Elyan,” she said slowly, a sinking feeling in her stomach. “Did you see Merlin’s body?”

“No,” he said, and she could see the moment he realized what she was really asking. The Dorocha only froze the body, they didn’t destroy it. What other reason could they have returned without it?

“You don’t think Morgana has him, do you?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Now that the holidays are over I hope I'll be able to work a bit faster, but we'll see. I'm still not totally happy with this chapter, but there are so many other important scenes I want to get to and I feel like I'll get stuck here if I let myself.
> 
> I did have a lot of fun thinking what kind of conclusions people would draw with the information they've been given. Based on the episode, the only people who actually knew about the Cailleach and the blood sacrifice and everything were Arthur, Agravaine, Merlin, Lancelot, and Gaius. I've taken some liberties with what everyone else knows.


	3. Chapter 3

_The forest was alive with malice, vines and branches whipping him as hard as any lash. His eyes stung against the harsh wind, so many leaves leaping to join the maelstrom he could barely see through them. Brambles grew wild around his feet, their thorns digging tighter into his skin the harder he thrashed against them, but he had to keep moving. Merlin was_ right there _. He was on his knees in a small clearing just ahead, a place the storm didn’t seem to be touching. His eyes were closed, head lolling to the side, looking for all the world like he was asleep. Creeping up his body was a sapling, whipcord branches wrapping around his legs and chest as it grew taller by the second. The agony of forcing his way through the brambles was muted somehow, unimportant in the face of Merlin’s danger, but none of his steps seemed to bring him any closer._

 _The branches morphed into a young trunk, warped as it grew around Merlin’s body. It was enveloping him, bits of his body disappearing into the bark as it flowed around him like tar. He’d be gone any second, the back of his head already lost inside and Arthur_ still couldn’t move —

The brambles holding him in place fell away at the pounding on his door. His eyes flew open with a gasp just as Leon entered, still in the clothes he’d worn to council the day before.

“I apologize Sire, but— Are you alright?” Leon asked with concern, and Arthur could imagine what he looked like. Panting, wide eyed, covered in sweat. The same as every morning these days. At the very least he didn’t think he’d cried out in his sleep this time.

“Fine, Sir Leon,” he said tersely, tense with the effort of keeping his breath under control. “Go on.”

Leon looked chastened at his own informality, standing up straighter and clasping his hands behind his back. Arthur sighed internally. He hadn’t meant to come off as cross, and it was always difficult to convince Leon he could speak freely around him.

“You’re needed in the council chambers, Sire. There’s been a problem with wood collection.”

“Already?” he asked wryly. He could hear Merlin’s response as if he were standing by Arthur’s shoulder, _that’s just what happens when someone leaves you in charge_ , and he let out a little huffing laugh. Leon heard.

“I apologize,” he said again. “I’ve already begun making arrangements to —” Arthur waved his hand to cut him off.

“Not your fault Leon.” Leon wasn’t Merlin. Arthur couldn’t speak to him like he was. “I’ll be there shortly.”

Leon bowed, a droop to his shoulders and deep shadows under his eyes. Arthur didn’t know when exactly he’d fallen asleep, but it couldn’t have been more than a few hours ago. Had Leon been awake all night mobilizing the men?

“And Leon,” Arthur called after him, “get some rest.” Leon looked ready to protest. “Consider it an order, if it helps. I’ll summon you if you’re needed.”

“Yes Sire…thank you, Sire.”

The latch clicked shut behind Leon and Arthur sat up with a groan, pushing his damp hair out of his face. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep at all, but the cold had driven him into bed in the early hours of the morning. He hadn’t quite been able to finish cleaning everything. He’d knocked over an inkwell that left a stain and torn a bracket holding up a tapestry right out of the wall, but he thought it was tidy enough not to arouse suspicion.

Maybe Leon had just been too exhausted to notice.

At the very least it was clean enough for him to dress himself quickly. His movements were sluggish, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to carry on with so little sleep for much longer. But he didn’t know if he could face Gaius at all, let alone for something as mundane as a sleeping draught, so he splashed his face with cold water and resolved to make it through the day.

He didn’t have much of a choice.

—

The men standing in the throne room bowed low when Arthur entered. They wore peasant clothes, rough spun wool that had been patched and mended many times. Their shoes were heavily caked in dried mud, and their faces showed the roughened skin of those who spent most of their life outdoors. The apparent leader held a bundle wrapped in cloth to his chest.

“Your Majesty,” he said, and Arthur suppressed a shiver. He wasn’t king yet, but the particulars of his title would matter little to these men.

“I’m told you’ve encountered a problem,” he said, not missing the nervous glances they exchanged as they straightened.

“Well,” the one in the middle stepped forward, “we was out getting firewood by the lake to the north and…we thought it was sap at first, but sap don’t run this time of year, do it?”

“And it doesn’t look like any kind of sap I’ve ever seen,” one of the others spoke up, all of them nodding in agreement. They had different accents. Refugees?

“What is your name, good man?” Arthur asked the one carrying the bundle.

“Alfred, my lord,” he said, looking startled at being asked.

“Alfred, then. Will you show me?” Arthur gestured to the bundle, and Alfred nodded and set it out on the table. Inside was a small, intact section of a tree trunk, either end still jagged and sharp where an axe had cleaved it from the rest of the tree. It was to those ends Alfred pointed, and Arthur leaned in close.

They were right, it _did_ look something like sap at first glance, but not quite. All the sap Arthur had ever seen looked golden while this was more brown, thicker and more solid in appearance. It had left a rusty smear on the cloth it was wrapped in that gleamed faintly in the light. It didn’t move like sap either, flowing less like honey and more like blood out of a half clotted wound. A faint smell drifted up from it, not quite like rot but nothing pleasant either.

“The smell was stronger when we first cut it. Don’t know if it’s safe to burn.”

“Have there been any other reports of wood like this?” Arthur asked, feeling a headache coming on. Winter was near, and there were still far too many dead fouling the fields outside the city. They couldn’t afford to have problems now.

“These men are the first to return,” Agravaine said.

“Where exactly were these trees?”

“This one here was…maybe a hundred paces from the shore?” Alfred said. “The ones closer had this stuff dripping off the branches. Don’t know how far it spreads.”

Arthur nodded, reminding himself that now was not the time to show worry.

“Thank you for bringing this to us, I’ll look into it,” he said instead. The men straightened, hearing the dismissal in his voice. “Do you have lodgings in the city?”

Only one of them nodded. Arthur turned to one of the guards stationed by the door.

“You there! Ensure these men are given accommodations for the night,” he said, and the men bowed low again, giving thanks before leaving the Great Hall, the door shutting firmly behind them. Agravaine came to stand at his shoulder.

“Something in the water, perhaps?” he asked, looking at the wood with distaste.

“Perhaps.” He’d never seen anything like it before, and his first thought was of magic. But Camelot was weak, and Morgana had proven herself capable of great power. What would poisoning trees a few leagues to the north gain her? Assuming it was her. Assuming it was magic at all.

“Send for Geoffrey,” he said. “See if he can find any record of something like this happening before.”

“Should we not send for Gaius?” Agravaine asked.

“We may have to,” he said, grateful for the long years at court that taught him to keep his true feelings close to his chest. “But Gaius will search for magic as an explanation. It may simply be a disease.”

It wasn’t a lie necessarily, but his stomach twisted uncomfortably nonetheless. Thankfully Agravaine only nodded and left to make preparations. He sent out a prayer that this was a harmless disease that would pass quickly, and he wouldn’t have to intrude on Gaius’s grief and demand he solve a problem. He didn’t know if Gaius was strong enough for that, and truthfully, he didn’t know if he could bear the shame.

—

The problem he’d found with issuing orders was that in the time it took to gather information, there was very little for him to do. It would be days yet before any of his riders returned from the outlying estates, and at least that long before they could start organizing the refugees. He couldn’t expect Geoffrey and the monks to finish combing through Camelot’s natural history books until at least the next day, so until then it was a waiting game.

He was terrible at waiting.

He’d taken to pacing the battlements, knowing he couldn’t stray far from the castle but needing a release for his restless energy. They were quiet at least, most of the remaining guardsmen reassigned to more essential positions, and that nearly made up for the stench. He hadn’t noticed it from the ground floors, but this high up he could easily see the massive pyre still burning outside the city, the dead lined up in neat rows alongside it before being tossed in a few at a time. The breeze had shifted not long ago, pushing the plume of black smoke towards him. Bits of ash had started drifting down over the city, a fine dusting of it coating the stones and sticking to his hair. If the breeze didn’t shift again he’d need to go back inside, but not yet. He’d give it one more turn around the perimeter.

The noise from town fell away sharply as he left the walls overlooking it, moving above the much quieter castle grounds and the forest beyond. It was still, only a handful of figures moving across the lawn, and if not for the persistent ashfall it might have been peaceful.

A scuffle in the training yard below broke the illusion, shouts and the clash of metal on metal rising through the air. Peering over the parapet, he saw a small group of young knights knotted together close to the wall, swords discarded as they grappled with their fists, a handful of their companions trying ineffectively to pull them apart. Rolling his eyes, he made his way to the staircase switchbacking down the wall towards the young men. He shouldn’t be surprised to see fights breaking out. The knights had been left to their own devices for days now, and restlessness turned to violence too easily in men trained to kill.

He hadn’t even reached the staircase before another shout silenced the others. “Enough!”

Gwaine. What was he doing here? He’d never been one for dedicated training. Though a skilled fighter and one whose loyalty Arthur never doubted, it was no secret he held knighthood as a whole in no small amount of contempt. It drove a wedge between him and Arthur’s more senior knights, and he tended to avoid the training grounds as often as he could get away with. This was the last place he’d have expected to find him, but as he hurried down the stairs he could see that it was in fact Gwaine, holding the other knights’ arms in a punishing grip as he physically stood between them. They were speaking too quietly for Arthur to hear, but it had the look of a lecture. It was out of character for Gwaine, and he couldn’t quite place his finger on why it made him uneasy.

“What’s going on here?”

The young knights in question looked up with a look of such panicked guilt it was comical, but it was Gwaine who answered.

“Just a little disagreement between friends. We’ve got it all sorted now, right lads?”

He let go of their arms, and they kept their eyes lowered as they rubbed sullenly at their sore muscles. He ignored their murmurs of _sorry Sire_ and _won’t happen again Sire_ , choosing instead to focus on Gwaine.

He was dressed for patrol, mail and cloak on and sword strapped to his belt, his hair pulled away from his face. There was a flush to his cheeks, as if he’d only just stopped working, and a gleam in his eyes as he watched the other knights shuffle their feet and stammer their apologies. He looked fine, for lack of a better word. Arthur didn’t trust it.

Gwaine clapped his hands together jovially, looking down at his companions. “Well, glad that’s settled. Don’t you lot have somewhere else to be?” They scampered off, glad to escape punishment no doubt. Technically only he and Leon had the authority to dismiss other knights, but he let the breach of decorum go. He’d rather talk to Gwaine alone anyway.

Gwaine leaned in close before Arthur could decide if it was his place to say anything at all, let alone what to say. “You want my advice? Give them something to do,” he said, voice low and face uncommonly serious. “They’re bored and worried about their families. Bad combination, that. I’ve led a few patrols, but it’s not enough.”

Arthur blinked. “You did?” He wasn’t one for giving orders any more than he enjoyed following them. Arthur had a hard time picturing him commanding a group of men.

Gwaine shrugged. “They didn’t listen to me much, but no one else was doing it.”

An oversight on Arthur’s part. Almost every one of his knights had family living elsewhere in the kingdom, the second and third sons of minor nobles who’d been sent away during childhood. He should have known they’d be as jumpy as his councilors, and that was dangerous in men with power over others and the strength and weapons needed to enforce it.

And besides, what was better for passing the time than training?

—

The knights assembled on the training yard in record time. That more than anything told Arthur how much they needed this.

Gwaine proved an admirable replacement for Leon, supervising bouts and organizing matches, providing critique and encouragement in equal measure. Several of the older knights looked askance at him, turning to Arthur as if waiting for permission to put him in his place. He let his silence speak for itself.

Gwaine was a very good actor, Arthur could give him that, but the longer they were together the more cracks in his facade Arthur could spot. Laughs that were a bit too loud followed by lapses into distant silence. He was constantly moving, a strange jerkiness to his motions as if he had to force himself out of stillness. That he’d taken on a leadership role at all was proof enough, really. His distance from the other knights would be coming in handy; he doubted most would see anything other than a bit of restlessness, though he could see Percival and Elyan glancing at him. They left him well enough alone though, and Arthur suspected that was wise. Grief did funny things to a man, and Arthur knew enough to be wary of one whose entire personality had shifted overnight. He’d work through it in his own time.

That, and Arthur could admit he needed Gwaine’s help then. It wasn’t only the younger knights itching for a fight, most everyone was aggressive and unruly. Not even half an hour had passed before a dozen genuine fights had broken out, four of his men sitting out with minor injuries and the rest bristling at imagined insults. A few of Arthur’s more level headed knights were trying their best to keep the peace, but if not even Arthur himself could cow them the rest would be brushed off like irritating flies. His army was turning into a mob.

“Enough!”

His shout carried, but even so it took those who heard him spreading the word through elbows to the ribs and slaps to the back of the head before everyone quieted down.

“Is this the legacy our fallen brothers left behind?” he asked, letting every ounce of his disappointment and anger bleed into his voice. “Knights turning on friends as foes?” He let the silence last long enough for shame to soak into even the most bullheaded of his men before turning his back on them. “Since everyone here has forgotten what it means to be a _unified_ army, I’ll give you a demonstration. Everyone grab a pike.”

He’d expected to hear some grumbling. Pike training was slow, intensive work, but they’d either learned their lesson and were seeking to please him, or they were that desperate for a task. Everyone but Gwaine, who lagged behind the others on their way to the armory.

“Sir Gwaine! Monitor the back of the formation, keep them in line. I’ll lead from the front.” He turned away before he could see if Gwaine was grateful or not.

—

It had been too long since he’d held a pike. His thighs trembled as he held a crouch, arms straining to hold the pike at just the right angle while the archers fired practice shots over his shoulder, but it was worth it to see the good it did his men. The discipline needed to hold still seemed to have snuffed out their violent energy and they were working well as a team, their movements smooth and in sync. He could hear Gwaine pacing along the back and was glad he’d kept him out of the formation. His restlessness would only have infected those around him, and this way he could keep an eye on those Arthur couldn’t see.

He gave the signal to raise the pikes and shift position, standing on shaky legs as those in back became the new front-men. The transition went well, and he made a note to do team building exercises more often. They could all use it.

His new place in the formation brought him next to Elyan. Sweat was pouring down his face, but his eyes were clear and his grip strong. Arthur had done all his men a disservice by abandoning them in the days since his return, but none more so than those who had journeyed with him. They’d been in as much danger as he had, and they’d gone out of trust in him. Merlin had always seemed so proud of the inner circle he’d built, counted all of them among his friends. It would dishonor him to leave those bonds to atrophy.

But this wasn’t the place to say any of that, so he only met Elyan’s eyes and hoped some of his gratitude shone through. Apparently not. Elyan’s eyes skittered away, his grip tightening on the pike.

Before Arthur had even begun to process what that could mean, a murmur went through the ranks as a page ran up, clearly trying to get his attention.

“Halt!” he called. Pikes raised all around him and the archers lowered their bows. “That’s enough for today, we’ll continue tomorrow.”

The boy pushed through the knights as soon as they started dispersing, panting as if he’d been running. “My Lord,” he began, dropping into a hasty bow. “The physician has summoned you.”

He did not run.

It was un-Princely to run in the absence of immediate danger, and the page hadn’t seemed panicked, only urgent. But something must be wrong for Gaius to have summoned him. Had he fallen or taken ill? Had his father grown worse? Had his father _improved_?

An unlikely but persistent thought told him he’d walk in to find Gaius packed and his chambers empty, telling him he’d retired and was leaving Camelot forever. His more dramatic imaginings had Gaius spitting at him as he left for taking away the closet thing to family the old man had. His equally self-pitying thoughts told him he’d deserve it.

He did not run, but he walked very quickly.

Distantly, he was aware of Gwaine and Elyan following behind him. Selfishly grateful not to be alone for this, he climbed the staircase to Gaius’s chambers and pushed the door open.

“Don’t breathe the smoke!” Gaius’s shout came from the one small window on the upper level of his chambers. He was using a stack of large parchments to funnel a dark purple gas outdoors with one hand, a cloth held tight over his mouth and nose with the other. The gas was coming from his table, billowing up in a large plume that spread along the high ceiling.

Arthur’s shirt was covering his face before he’d fully processed Gaius’s warning, the others following quickly behind. It was Elyan who reacted first, moving quickly to the fireplace and grabbing the large, empty cauldron hanging there, upending it over the pillar of smoke. The table creaked under the sudden weight but held steady, the smoke cutting off abruptly as whatever was creating it was trapped underneath.

Gwaine took off up the stairs and joined Gaius, grabbing a book to help push the remaining smoke out. The balcony only ran along half of the room, so Arthur grabbed a broom and did his best to make a breeze to push the rest of the smoke closer to them. It felt a bit silly, waving a broom at nothing, but Elyan joined in quickly.

They were making progress when a hissing sound filled the air, the remaining smoke soaking into whatever it was touching. It moved like a thing alive, burrowing with intent into the stones along the ceiling and staining them purple. He heard Gwaine yelp, the book he was holding hitting the balcony with a thud. In moments there was none left.

Gaius let out a breath. “Thank you,” he said, setting his papers aside and making his way back down the stairs. “Well, I can safely say that you should not burn that wood.”

“I thought Geoffrey was looking into that,” Arthur said, irritated despite himself. The entire point had been to _not_ disturb Gaius.

A scraping noise from the table drew their attention where Elyan had lifted the cauldron. The smoke had stopped and the original piece of wood was gone, but a deep circle in the table had been scoured in its place, also stained purple.

“Er…sorry Gaius,” Elyan said, moving the cauldron to the floor. Its inside was ruined as well.

Gaius waved him away. “Geoffrey was quite certain he’d never seen anything like this," he said, turning back to Arthur. "He will search thoroughly, if you doubt his dedication, but he passed it on to me in the meantime.”

No point arguing about it then. “Did this,” he gestured around the room, “tell you anything?”

“It is certainly no natural disease, though what exactly it is I couldn’t say.”

He might as well ask what they were all thinking. “Could this be Morgana?”

Gaius considered. “No, I don’t think so. Magic was involved, certainly, but this does not bear the marks of a malicious curse.”

“It nearly ate through your table, how is that not dangerous?”

Gaius gave him a sharp look. “I said nothing of danger. Magic can be dangerous just as a flood is dangerous. That does not mean there was intent behind it.”

Arthur sucked in a breath, still sore from the latest cruelty magic had dealt him and more than ready to argue the point, but Gwaine shot him a warning look. Even Elyan looked uncomfortable. He knew when he was outnumbered.

Gaius continued, “No, this looks to me more like some sort of magical decay.”

“You’re saying the trees had magic?” Elyan asked, a note of skepticism in his voice.

“I saw a tree start walking once,” Gwaine said. His shoulders raised defensively when three pairs of eyes swung to him. “I did! Tore its roots up and off it went.”

“Yes, well,” Gaius said over Elyan’s muffled laughter, “there are some creatures that resemble trees, but in this case I think it more likely there was magic in the soil or water that fed them. They could have been home to the Sidhe, or possibly even a Dryad, though I can’t imagine what might have driven them away. In any case, they shouldn’t be burned. This happened when I touched a candle to the bark.”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll tell the men to focus their efforts to the south. You’re certain this wasn’t an attack of some kind?”

“I could be wrong of course,” Gaius said, clasping his hands behind his back, “but even if Morgana drove magic out of the area, and I don’t know that she would, this seems like a side effect more than the intended cause.”

Arthur sighed and turned away, displeased with the answer. In a way he almost hoped Morgana had been responsible if it meant she was still in reach, but Gaius seemed confident in his explanation. It wasn't as if there was someone else he could ask for a second opinion.

“I'll send someone out to round the rest of the men up, get them away from that place.” He turned to Gaius. “See if you can find any more information about this. I won’t rule Morgana out until we know for certain.”

Even if Gaius was right, he promised himself vigilance anyway. The last time Morgana had disappeared she’d nearly destroyed them. He wouldn’t give her a second chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone!
> 
> Gwaine makes his first appearance, and finally some plot development! Dryads come from Greek mythology, but so does the Lamia and they used that in the show so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Chapter 4

_You don’t think Morgana has him, do you?_ It was madness to even think it. Arthur would be looking for him, not mourning him, and what would Morgana want with Merlin anyway? Why only him when it was Arthur she wanted dead? _How_ only him when he’d had six knights to defend him?

Arthur would be _looking_ for him.

_Unless he’s enchanted._ She’d seen Arthur enchanted before, reckless and careless over his love for Princess Vivian, and he wasn’t acting as he did then. But then how was she to know? She’d only seen him twice since his return, and she knew nothing of the kinds of enchantments used for things other than love. It was possible Morgana had cast some sort of spell over him, the only thing she didn’t understand was why.

Elyan hadn’t known the answer any more than she did. According to him, they’d been attacked by wyverns on the Isle of the Blessed and he, Percival, and Leon had stayed behind to fend them off. When they’d caught up, Merlin was gone and the others were unconscious on the ground. So Morgana had defeated them all, taking Merlin prisoner in exchange for banishing the Dorocha, and left Arthur alive believing Merlin to be dead. For some reason.

It didn’t make any _sense._

Self aware enough to know she was grasping at straws, she headed to the knights’ quarters early the next morning. The only people left in Camelot who could give her answers were Arthur, Gwaine, and Lancelot. Arthur was busy (and possibly enchanted) and Gwaine…well, she wouldn’t ask Gwaine unless she had to. That left Lancelot.

Her knuckles rapping against his door sent an echo down the quiet hallway.

Thirty seconds.

She kept her head high and eyes forward even as she knew people were starting to stare as they passed by.

One minute.

She knocked again, a little louder than before. Still nothing. The latch was cold under her hand and didn’t budge when she pushed. She leaned in close, her ear pressed against the wood listening for any sound.

“Lancelot?”

“He’s gone Miss.”

She jumped, feeling awfully like she’d been caught at something, and turned to face a knight whose face she recognized but whose name she didn’t know.

“Gone?” He wouldn’t have left _again_ , would he? He’d sworn an oath to Arthur. No matter their personal history she couldn’t imagine him as a deserter.

The knight reached out a hand as if to steady her. “Are you alright? Do you need assistance?”

“No, I…where did he go?” Her voice sounded distant to her own ears, faint, and the concern on the knight’s face was only growing worse.

“Sir Leon sent him to Balor, I heard. He should return before the month is out,” he said, and abruptly the world came rushing back. Of course he hadn’t deserted. She remembered the commotion in the courtyard as over a dozen knights prepared to ride out on Arthur’s order. She hadn’t noticed Lancelot among them, but he was hardly the only knight with short, dark hair. It would also explain why she hadn’t spotted him anywhere since the funeral.

Her dread banished, a rush of mortified embarrassment came to take its place. She dropped into a curtsy.

“Thank you, My Lord.”

She counted herself lucky as she made her way back down the hallway. There were many knights who would have taken her lack of deference much less graciously.

_He should return before the month is out._ That was three weeks away. If Merlin really was alive he couldn’t wait that long, and honestly she didn’t think her sanity would last either. That left Arthur and Gwaine. Arthur was out of the question. If he really was enchanted she got the feeling a kiss wouldn’t work a second time, and she’d never be able to get a moment alone with him besides. They hadn’t gotten away with that when he was only the Prince, it would be worse now he was Prince Regent.

That meant Gwaine was her only option.

He wasn’t in his chambers either, or the kitchens, or courtyard, or stables. She started to feel a bit ridiculous, hunting all over the castle for the one man who was usually easiest to find. When she couldn’t justify wasting the day any longer she kept an eye out for him as she went about the chores that needed doing, peering down corridors and through windows hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

She was in the middle of carrying a fresh batch of laundry when she froze, ignoring the disgruntled sounds of the people behind her barely avoiding a collision. If Arthur was enchanted, who was to say Lancelot and Gwaine weren’t also? It seemed so obvious she didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of it until now.

She was moving towards Gaius’s chambers before she’d made a conscious decision of where to go, the linens in her arms discarded at the first windowsill she came across. Gaius might not have been there, but if the others had been enchanted he’d be the only one who could do something about it.

—

She nearly collided with Arthur when she pushed Gaius’s door open, his eyes open comically wide as he reeled back from the door about to crush his nose. Her hands flew to her face.

“I’m so sorry!”

Gwaine reached out a hand to keep Arthur from falling backwards. _Found him._

Behind Gwaine stood Elyan, and she started to get the feeling she’d interrupted something. Had he taken it upon himself to find out what happened? She shot him a look as subtly as she could with everyone’s eyes on her and hoped he’d understand her meaning. He shook his head once, a tiny motion only she could see.

“I’m fine,” Arthur said, regaining his balance and brushing Gwaine’s hand away. “Guinevere,” he greeted, as if they’d run into each other in a hallway and she hadn’t almost knocked him flat on his back. She stifled a laugh. “Are you injured?” His eyes swept over her body, a frown tugging at the skin between his brows. Of course she wasn’t injured. He hadn’t knocked the door back in her direction, and even if he had she wasn’t made of glass. She’d nearly opened her mouth to thank him for his sweet but unnecessary concern before she realized he wasn’t talking about the door at all. That was his way of asking why she was here.

She could tell him. She _should_ tell him. They were all right there, what better opportunity would she get? But as she looked into his eyes, the frown growing more pronounced the longer she stayed silent, she found she couldn’t. She didn’t know what was more frightening, the idea of being wrong or the idea of being right.

“I was here to see Gaius,” she said eventually, feeling every inch the coward. It didn’t do anything to reassure Arthur she wasn’t injured so she hurried on, “Regarding a…personal matter.”

He looked confused until Gwaine pointedly cleared his throat behind him. His eyes widened again, a flush spreading across his cheeks.

“Right,” he said, clearly thrown off balance, “we were just leaving. We’ll leave you to it.”

Elyan gave her a helpless look as they followed, the door shutting behind them.

“Do you need something for pain?” Gaius asked, already moving to the shelves where he stored his medicines.

“No, nothing like that. I…I came to ask you something, actually.”

He turned to face her, eyebrow raised expectantly.

“I think Merlin might be alive,” she blurted, pressing her lips together tightly after. When had her heart started pounding so hard?

His eyebrow climbed nearly to his hairline, and she hurried to continue before she could lose her nerve.

“It’s just…no one is asking what happened to his body, and I was thinking that if they found Morgana maybe he’s still out there with her and she bewitched them to forget…”

It sounded so ridiculous said aloud, and the sadness growing on Gaius’s face told her all she needed to know.

“…he’s not alive, is he?”

“What brought this on?” he asked, and she couldn’t stand the pity in his face. She turned away.

“I just thought…I don’t know what I thought.” Despondency overtook her. She sank down onto Gaius’s bench, her arms wrapped tight around her middle. Gaius settled next to her. “I just wanted him to come home.”

His arm wound around her back. “Arthur didn’t tell you?” he asked, before answering himself. “No, I don’t suppose he would have.”

“You know what happened,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

Gaius sighed and nodded. “Morgana tore the veil with a blood sacrifice. I can’t tell you exactly what happened, but I know that another was required to seal it.”

“A blood sacrifice?” she asked, voice weak and horrified. The sort of evil magics she imagined turned her stomach, and the thought of Merlin suffering through any of them made holding on to her breakfast a chore.

Gaius took her hand. “I know it doesn’t help, but Merlin wanted this.”

The laugh Gwen let loose toed the line between hysterical and sobbing. “He _wanted_ to die?”

“He wanted everyone else to live,” Gaius corrected, with more patience than she probably deserved at the moment. It only made her feel worse. Reaching out a hand, he cupped her cheek and pulled gently until they were eye to eye. “He wanted _you_ to live. He loved you Gwen, never doubt that.”

However ill-founded and untrue it was, the hope she’d clung to the past couple of days had served as a lifeline. To be so suddenly without it felt like drowning. Her chest was cracking in two, shattering right through her heart into pieces she’d never be able piece back together. How was she supposed to live with this kind of pain?

It was like he’d died all over again.

“Why didn’t he tell me?” she asked, barely getting the words out through her gasping breaths.

“Would it have helped?”

_No._ No it wouldn’t have helped, watching him ride out the gate knowing it was the last time she’d ever see him, but the closure of a proper goodbye might have been worth the pain. It was better than lying awake at night trying to remember the last thing she’d said to him.

“I couldn’t stop him.” The depth of pain in Gaius’s voice betrayed the grief his dry eyes kept hidden. He seemed so old then, the wrinkles in his skin casting deep shadows over his face. So few of them looked like laughter lines. “No one could have. He believed in Arthur and the future of this kingdom. I don’t think it was a decision to him at all.”

She was right about one thing at least. It was so like Arthur to sacrifice himself for his kingdom, and it was so like Merlin to try and save him. Little, scrawny Merlin, always throwing himself in front of other people’s enemies since the day they’d met. Gaius was right, he’d never have done anything differently.

The sound of heavy footfalls breaking into a run just outside the door drew both their attention, Elyan’s shout of “Gwaine, wait!” echoing just behind. The only thing she saw when she opened the door was the tail end of Elyan’s cloak disappearing down the stairs.

—

Arthur was seated at his desk, skimming through the reports he’d let pile up when Gwaine burst through the door. He was half way out of his chair, hand already reaching for the knife he kept in his boot before he’d even realized who was striding towards him, but Gwaine had speed and surprise on his side. His fist connected solidly with Arthur’s cheek, neck straining as it was whipped to the side before Gwaine grabbed a fistful of his hair and slammed him face first into the desk. His nose gave way, the sickening crunch alerting him to the damage before the blinding pain and blood pouring into his mouth could. Dazed, he offered no resistance as he was dragged by the shirt collar to the wall, Gwaine’s forearm against his throat pinning him against the cold stone.

“You son of a bitch,” he spat, face a twisted mask of fury the likes of which Arthur had never seen from him before. “You fucking coward, couldn’t wait to get rid of him could you?”

Arthur’s struggles were feeble, lingering dizziness and the blackness creeping into the edge of his vision from lack of air conspiring against him.

“What kind of Prince lets an unarmed servant die for him? How could —”

Air flowed back into his lungs with one, desperate gasp. Gwaine was pulled back, Elyan’s hands wrapped tight around his arms and holding fast against his struggling, but Gwaine wasn’t to be deterred. A headbutt was all that was needed to loosen Elyan’s grip, one good shove sending him crashing into the bedpost before Gwaine charged Arthur again. This time Arthur was ready.

He sidestepped at the last possible moment, Gwaine grasping at Arthur’s shirt but unable to stop his own momentum from carrying him into the wall. In one quick motion Arthur broke Gwaine’s grip on his shirt and dragged his arm behind his back, pushing up until the strain on his shoulder immobilized him.

Should have, anyway. Gwaine fought like an unbroken stallion, uncaring of his own pain in his efforts to buck Arthur off, spewing venom all the while. Arthur threw all his weight forward, his free arm coming up to keep Gwaine’s shoulders pinned.

“It should have been me!”

His shout rang out in the sudden stillness. Gwaine went limp under his hands.

“It should have been me,” he said again, little more than a whisper. It was cathartic, finally giving voice to the guilt that hounded him. His eyes fluttered shut, his spirit feeling lighter than it had since he’d first laid eyes on the Isle of the Blessed.

They were both panting, the fight drained out of them, and Arthur relaxed his grip and stepped back. It wasn’t until he’d made some space between them that he even noticed the guards hovering nearby, clearly waiting for a chance to intervene without risking Arthur being hurt in the process.

“Wait!” he called, throwing out an arm to prevent their rush forward. “Sheath your swords.” They exchanged nervous glances, but obeyed. Gwaine made no move to resume his attack.

“Take Sir Gwaine to the dungeons, but he is to be treated well. Am I clear?”

“Yes Sire,” they chorused, each grasping one of Gwaine’s arms and shoving him towards the door. He went meekly, head lolling as he was shoved as if he hadn’t the strength to hold it up, but he held Arthur’s gaze for as long as he could. For the life of him, Arthur couldn’t read it.

Elyan followed the guards, casting concerned glances between the two of them until he too was out of sight. It wasn’t until after their exit that he noticed Guinevere standing by the door ashen-faced and shaken, her hands clenched tightly before her chest. Arthur sank onto his bed with a groan.

“How much of that did you see?” he asked, words wet and garbled from the blood pouring into his mouth. Droplets of it flew forward with his breath.

She didn’t answer, rushing forwards while tearing a section of her apron off and balling it up in her fist.

“You’re bleeding,” she said, pressing the cloth against his nose. He hissed, pain flaring from the bridge up into his forehead, but though she gentled her touch she did not move the cloth away.

They sat like that for a time. The bleeding was fierce, soaking through the cloth and coating her hands, but it was also short lived. It wasn’t long before all he could feel was the dried remains coating his mouth and chin and Gwen’s touch gently brushing the flakes away.

“I don’t think it’s broken, but you should see Gaius.” Her tone was brisk and matter-of-fact, and despite the ache it caused he couldn’t help smiling softly. She was always at her most beautiful when she was sure of herself, issuing orders as if she were born to it. He’d missed her fiercely.

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, giving so much of her attention to wiping the same patches of skin clean it was clear there were other things on her mind.

“I’m sorry,” she said, gaze fixed firmly at the join between his neck and shoulder. “It’s my fault he came here. I was talking with Gaius, and I didn’t know he was listening but I should have been quieter, I should have…” she trailed off. He didn’t need to ask what they’d been talking about.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it, but…” the cloth fell away from his face, her gaze lowering even further to where their thighs were pressed together. “Did you mean what you said to Gwaine?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation in his answer. He’d kept the truth from her before to spare her from unnecessary pain and worry, but what was there to spare her from now? She clearly wanted to know. She deserved to know, and now that he’d spoken the truth aloud he didn’t have the strength to take it back.

Gwen licked her lips. They trembled slightly. “Gaius said there was a blood sacrifice?”

Arthur fell back on the bed, his head aching from the impact. He felt the bed dip slightly as Gwen laid next to him, the tips of her fingers resting lightly on his arm. He let his eyes fall closed. It was easier, somehow, to speak when he didn’t have to see the effect of his words.

“There was an old woman there when we arrived, the Cailleach Gaius called her, like a gatekeeper between our world and wherever the spirits came from. I could see the tear in the veil behind her but there was nothing beyond it, just darkness.” And screams. The kind of screams that convinced him he’d been staring at the mouth of Hell, but that wasn’t what Gwen needed to hear. “She was the one who demanded a sacrifice. I was going to do it,” Gwen’s fingers pressed tighter into his arm, “I remember walking towards her and then…” he waved his hand through the air. “Nothing. When I woke up the tear was gone, and so was Merlin.”

His eyes burned when he finished his explanation, his jaw working with the effort of holding his tears back. Gwen settled herself more fully next to him, lying her head on his shoulder.

“He shouldn’t have been there. Gwaine is right —”

“Arthur —” she tried to cut him off, the admonishment clear in her voice, but he kept going.

“What sort of Prince can’t protect his people.”

“What is a kingdom without its King?” Gwen asked gently.

“I’m not the King.”

“You will be. Your people need you now.”

Arthur scoffed. “You can’t tell me you don’t wish he was here.”

Gwen drew back so suddenly he rolled a bit to fill the dip she’d left in the mattress. When he looked to her he could see she was holding back tears as well. “That isn’t fair,” she said, voice choked. He hadn’t even noticed the misplaced anger building inside of him until it had fled.

“You’re right,” he said, reaching out a hand to cup her cheek. “I’m sorry.”

She let him draw her close again, and he took comfort in the warmth of her body and the brush of her hair.

“Merlin told me the same thing, you know,” he said after a time. “About the kingdom needing me. His exact words were ‘What is the life of a servant to the life of a Prince?’” It was the one thing about Merlin that had always perplexed him, the way he could treat Arthur like an equal from the day they’d met and yet still say things like that so sincerely. “I think he was a better man than I am.”

“You are both great men,” Gwen said fiercely. She propped herself up on an elbow so she could look him in the eye. “It was never a competition.”

“I must be lacking in something. The Cailleach chose Merlin, not me, and _I don’t know why_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact, Gwaine punching Arthur in the face is the scene this entire story was based around lol, it felt nice finally getting to write it.
> 
> I hope Gwen in this chapter wasn't too confusing. The whole 'Merlin might be alive' was never a plot line I wanted to take very far or make it seem like it was definitely true. I just hope the inconsistencies and logical leaps she made came across as unreliable narration rather than confusing writing. I've never written something like that before.
> 
> Sorry for the delay too. I kept thinking about all the fun and happy things I wanted to write and lost my mojo for sad stuff for a bit, but we're back!


	5. Chapter 5

Arthur left Gwaine in the dungeons for nearly a week.

Part of that was out of necessity. The entire castle knew what had happened between them before the day was over. Even if the guards hadn’t spread the news like wildfire as soon as they were free to do so, he couldn’t hide the spectacular bruising covering a good portion of his face. His councilors demanded justice for such treason, so Arthur left him in there until everyone had a chance to calm down.

But part of it was also selfish. Despite Gwen’s reassurances, Gwaine’s words had cut deep. They would have to sit down and talk about it eventually, but he appreciated the chance to wait for a time when he wasn’t feeling quite so raw. As he was spending most of his time sequestered in his quarters, he had nothing to do but gather his thoughts.

Gaius had supplied him with enough salves and potions that the bruises started to fade quickly, they didn’t even truly ache much beyond the first day or two, but it wouldn’t do to show himself before his people overly much looking like this. He rarely ventured out, letting his men bring reports to him instead. It was driving him mad honestly, but it was the lesser of two evils.

He was lounging with a book when one such report came to him, a perfunctory knock his only warning before a breathless squire burst through the door.

“Sire, come quickly! Morgana has been sighted.”

—

Arthur clearly wasn’t the first to have been given the news. The Great Hall was alive with nervous chatter from councilors and knights alike, small clusters of gossipers packing the room full. Leon flagged him down as soon as they spotted each other.

“What’s going on?”

Leon gestured for two other knights to join them. “Sirs Degore and Safir claim to have seen Morgana to the north,” he said, stepping back to allow them to tell their story.

“We were patrolling by the lake, Sire,” Degore began, the older and more self assured of the two, “making sure people stayed away from the poisoned trees. We spotted her there in the forest.”

“Are you certain it was her?”

“Yes, my Lord,” Degore said, no doubt in his voice. Degore was one of the knights who’d been imprisoned during Morgana’s insurrection. It was unlikely he’d ever forget her face, but Arthur turned to Safir nevertheless.

“I never met the Lady Morgana,” he said, “but I can confirm that there was a woman in the forest. Tall and pale, with long dark hair.” His voice rose slightly at the end, as if asking whether or not that accurately described Morgana. It was a generic description, but combined with Degore’s certainty it was enough to convince Arthur that neither of them had imagined her.

“Was anyone injured?”

“No, my Lord,” Degore said, his brows drawing together slightly in confusion. “She ran when she spotted us. We pursued her, but she vanished between the trees and left no trail.”

Arthur didn’t like to think poorly of his own men, but Morgana was more than a match for two knights, one of them young and untested. Why had she run, and more importantly what was she doing there? He hadn’t been able to shake his lingering suspicion that Morgana had something to do with the dying trees, but it didn’t make sense for her to linger there so long after she’d first cast her spell.

“Do you know which direction she was headed?”

“East, towards the border. But I can’t be certain that is the direction she came from.”

Arthur nodded and dismissed them, thanking them for bringing the news before turning to Leon.

“Can you assemble a party and be ready to ride in half an hour?” If this was their only lead, he’d pursue it as far as he could.

“Of course.”

“Good,” Arthur said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll meet you there. And have an extra horse prepared. There’s something I need to take care of.”

—

At the moment, Gwaine was the only person being held in the dungeon, so guard duty was light. The men standing watch by the door stepped aside to let him pass.

Leon had assured him that his order to treat Gwaine well hadn’t been conveniently forgotten, but it was still reassuring to see the man himself looking mostly alright. Physically at least. Manacles were clamped around his wrists and locked to the bolts in the far wall, but the chain had enough slack that he could move freely about the cell. He was slumped in the corner on a pile of clean straw, a fresh bowl of water beside him as well as an empty plate. He looked up at Arthur’s footsteps, leaning his head against the wall and letting his hair fall away from his face. The pose was casual, but his eyes were watchful.

“Is it the gallows for me, then?” he asked. Arthur rolled his eyes before he could remember this was supposed to be a serious conversation.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not going to execute you.”

Gwaine didn’t look like he believed him. Talking with him had always been so difficult. Their personalities clashed too much, but he loved Merlin (and how ironic, that he could acknowledge that now when it mattered the least), and Merlin loved Gwaine. They’d bonded in the way brothers-at-arms did, but Merlin was always the thread that tied them together. He wasn’t sure it would hold without him.

“I know that you didn’t come to Camelot for me. You’re free to go, if you wish to leave.”

“Is this a banishment?” Gwaine asked.

“It’s an opportunity. I won’t hold you to your oath if you no longer wish to serve me.” Broken bonds of fealty were no small thing ordinarily, but in this case he thought there’d be very little fuss raised to see him gone.

Gwaine was silent for a time. His eyes raked Arthur up and down, a distinct feeling of judgment following his gaze. “Swear to me,” he said eventually, voice low and serious, “swear to me that you didn’t offer him up on a platter.”

“On my life,” he said immediately, matching Gwaine’s tone in seriousness, “he was never supposed to be hurt.” He'd failed utterly in keeping him safe, but that much at least was true.

Amazingly, Gwaine started to laugh. Not the great, bellowing laughs he often let loose after a few drinks at the tavern, the kind that made his body shake and dragged those around him into mirth as well. It was a sound utterly devoid of merriment, and it sent a shiver up Arthur’s spine.

Whatever fit had prompted his laughter didn’t last long, his last laugh fading into a deep sigh. “You know,” he said, head rolling against the wall until it nearly rested against his shoulder, “I really wanted to hate you.”

Arthur didn’t know what to say to that.

“I think I’ll stay, if that’s alright. He’d never forgive me if you went and got yourself killed without me.”

The tension that had crept into Arthur’s shoulders bled out of him, relief taking its place. He unlocked the cell and released Gwaine from his manacles, giving him a hand to his feet as he did so.

“And, uh…Sorry about that,” Gwaine added, waving a hand in the general direction of Arthur’s face. Arthur waved him off, unable to truly be angry with the only punishment he was likely to get.

“Are you rested enough to ride?”

“Think so, where are we going?” Gwaine asked, brushing off a week’s worth of accumulated grime from his clothes as they made their way out of the dungeon.

“We’re going after Morgana.”

—

Whatever strange magic had been cast on these trees was clearly still in effect. They weren’t smoking, but instead they’d shriveled up somehow, their trunks so small Arthur could fit both his hands around them and have his fingertips touching. They looked like an old man’s gnarled walking stick, their leaves and most of their branches gone. A good push or a bit of wind would probably send most of them to the ground.

The decay had seeped into the ground as well. All the underbrush had been cleared away, leaving dry, cracked earth in its place, like a mud pool in summer. The overall effect was a forest that looked very little like a forest, but more like a salt flat with a few dead trees scattered around. The lake shimmering in the sunlight seemed very blue in comparison.

The good news was that the dusty ground left a very clear trail to follow. It took no time at all for Degore to lead them back to the spot he’d seen Morgana. Hoofprints were still clear on the ground where Degore and Safir had spurred their horses from a walk to a gallop, overtaking the small footprints of a woman running in the opposite direction. They hadn’t been exaggerating when they’d said she disappeared. Her footprints simply stopped, without even a break in her stride or any plausible hiding place nearby. Whatever she’d been doing, she was long gone now.

“Spread out, circle the lake. Look for anything that might tell us what she was doing here, and _be cautious_.”

Elyan and Percival headed west around the lake while Gwaine and Degore went north, planning to meet on the other side. Arthur retraced the footsteps.

She’d approached from the east, the trail still intact from the moment she’d stepped onto the cursed land. It was obviously fresh, so either Gaius was right and she hadn’t been the one to curse this forest or she’d left and come back. She’d walked alone in a straight line to the shore before pacing at the water’s edge, overlapping lines of footprints making it impossible to tell if there was a pattern to her movements or how long she’d been there. She’d left the same way she’d come, moving back east about a dozen paces along the shore from where she’d arrived, deviating neither in pace nor direction until she’d clearly seen Degore and Safir and broken into a run.

It told him very little.

He doubted she’d come to admire the view, so why this spot? There was no trace of another person anywhere nearby, so unless there was someone out there who could fly she hadn’t come for a meeting. He waded through the shallow water, searching for anything she might have cast in. Any strange stones or bundles of herbs, anything that didn’t look like it belonged, but he came up empty handed. If she’d cast any kind of spell here, it left no trace behind.

The only certain piece of information he had was the direction she’d come from, but how far to the east she’d gone or whether or not she’d changed course at all on the journey was uncertain. She’d slipped through his fingers again, and there was nothing he could do about it.

When he reunited with his men, their similar faces of disappointment told him they’d found nothing either.

“We could come back with the hunting dogs,” Gwaine offered, “see if they can pick up her trail.”

It was the best idea Arthur had thought of as well, so with a nod he turned them all back towards the castle and spurred his horse into a gallop. The sooner they could return the higher their chance of success.

—

Arthur had to work to keep his grip on the reins loose as the dogs searched for the trail, but his anxiety made it difficult. If this didn’t work, they had nothing.

It wasn’t going well. They’d reached the spot where her footprints disappeared, the dogs sniffing in frantic circles around them. Arthur backed his horse up a few paces as the circles grew wider and wider, until eventually the dogs collapsed on their bellies with a whine. Arthur’s eyes fell closed in disappointment, sighs and muttered curses breaking free from the men behind him.

Helplessness was the worst feeling of all, he’d decided. Always he was a few steps behind her, never able to protect his people before she struck. Instead he was left to pick up the pieces.

This couldn’t be it.

“Grab the leads,” he ordered. His men called the dogs back and reattached the leashes. “We’ll head east. They might pick up the trail again there.” It was a long shot, and based on the glances his men exchanged they knew it too, but it was better than doing nothing.

The boundary line between the cursed and uncursed trees was stark, the very smell of the air changing as they stepped over it. The dogs were well trained, keeping pace with the horses as they set out through the bare winter trees. The underbrush returned, as did the sounds of small animals moving around them, but otherwise it was eerily quiet. Shadows lengthened as they moved into hilled terrain, the chill in the air growing thicker until even the furred cloak he wore wasn’t enough to keep him from shivering. Sunset wasn’t far off.

He was about to turn them around when the dogs started straining against their leads, little whines and yips leaving them as they dug their paws into the ground, ready to spring into a run. Arthur’s breath caught.

“Set them loose.”

They charged, their howls the only trail they left to follow as they disappeared between the trees. A bit belatedly, Arthur spurred his horse into a run. They were led off trail quickly, their pace slowed dramatically as the horses struggled down steep embankments the dogs had simply leapt down. After the third such hill, sweat shining on his mare’s neck with the effort and the howls of the dogs growing ever more distant, he dismounted and ordered his men to do the same.

“Percival, stay with the horses. We’ll continue on foot.”

Their cloaks and mail caught on branches and thorns often, but despite the exertion of tearing themselves free they moved more quickly without the horses. The sounds of the dogs hadn’t grown any more distant. They’d found whatever it was that caught their attention, and Arthur ordered his men to slow. They hardly had the advantage of stealth, but he wouldn’t bumble into a trap simply because of carelessness.

They caught up with the dogs when they crested the next hill. There, at the bottom of the valley before them, was a small cabin with wooden walls and a sod roof. A small vegetable plot had been dug next to it, and the tinkling of a metal charm hung above the door carried with the wind. It was well concealed, and it disturbed him to think she’d chosen a hiding place so close to the castle. He doubted he ever would have found it if not for the dogs.

His men circled to surround the cabin and cut off any back exits. Arthur made his way to the door.

“Morgana!” he called, his shout echoing through the valley. No sound came from within.

He pressed the tip of his sword against the door, wary of any magical defenses guarding it. He felt no resistance magical or otherwise, the door creaking open at his push. Inside was dark, no candles or firepit to banish the shadows. Arthur went in.

The cabin really was small, smaller and more humble than he could ever imagine Morgana being comfortable with. It was only a single room, cluttered with books, glass vials, and bundles of herbs strewn about the single table and bookshelf inside, a small bed tucked in the back. He threw the door open wide, the light shining in illuminating the dust his footsteps kicked up. The sickly sweet smell of rotten fruit grew stronger the deeper inside he ventured, peering into every potential hiding place he could spot and coming up empty. His men joined him inside.

“It looks abandoned,” Degore said. Arthur concurred, sheathing his sword in disappointment.

“There’s a footpath around the back,” Elyan said. “Doesn’t look like it’s been used in a while.”

“Are we sure this was Morgana’s?” Degore asked.

“Yes,” Arthur said. There, shining in the light on the nightstand, was a necklace Arthur had given her for her fifteenth birthday. “I’m sure.” He didn’t know what it meant that she’d kept it, if it calmed or fueled her hatred when she looked at it, but seeing it filled him with sadness. Things had been so much simpler when they were children.

“Gather everything you can carry and take it back to the castle. We’ll come back for the rest.”

Hidden in all of these books might be clues as to what her next move would be, but even if not it was too dangerous to leave her things out in the open. If she ever dared show her face here again, there's be nothing left for her to return to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I've never interacted with a hunting dog in my life? Because I've never interacted with a hunting dog lol. 
> 
> This is the point where the plot really starts kicking off, and I'm gonna do my best to keep updates fairly frequent. I've got all these individual plot points already planned out, but connecting them is proving a bit more difficult than I anticipated, but I'll do my best.


	6. Chapter 6

Lancelot’s horse picked its way through the litter on the forest floor, maintaining its pace well despite his halfhearted guidance. If he didn’t put more thought into his posture he’d be bruised and unable to ride before the week was out, but he could never manage to keep his concentration that long. Anger stole it away every time he tried.

Merlin had no right to take away his choice like that, none at all.

_Like you wanted to take away his?_ a condescending voice in his head reminded him, but he pushed it away. It wasn’t the same thing. Camelot _needed_ Merlin, far more than it needed another sword arm. What would they do when the next magical threat descended on them. How could they hope to fight it? Especially when Arthur never knew they’d used magic in the first place. He’d be walking in blind believing he could see. Morgana was still out there, and Merlin had always been their first line of defense. He’d left them completely helpless and it was all so…so pointless. So unnecessary.

Lancelot had been ready.

_The bravest and most noble of them all._ That’s what the dragon had said. He didn’t feel like either of those things. Instead he felt like a coward, and he felt like a fool.

—

The further he traveled from Camelot, the more bodies and carts he found discarded by the side of the road, the elderly dangling out of wagons and children huddled in their parents’ grasp. He’d stopped to bury the first few he came across, when they were still few and far between, but by the time he’d left the forest behind for the plains in Brechia there were far too many for one man to handle. He’d come across them in huge packs, likely entire villages fleeing together, and it was all he could do to keep his horse from trampling those unlucky enough to die in the middle of the road. He passed them by with a heavy heart.

The stench grew worse as well, carrying on the wind for miles even if there wasn’t a body in sight, and he had to go further and further out of his way each night just to find a place to sleep. Most of his evenings were spent canvasing a potential camping spot, making sure no bodies had fouled the streams. It was a problem he hadn’t anticipated when he left, and he didn’t have nearly enough waterskins to take advantage of clean water when he found it.

That night, his eighth on the road, he got lucky. He had his tent set up and a meal cooking over the fire early enough that he could still enjoy the sunset, its brilliant colors reflecting off the Mountains of Isgaard in the distance. Dark storm clouds swarmed their peaks, obscuring the pass he'd need to take, and he resolved to pick up the pace the next day. Getting caught in a storm this time of year would be a death sentence. For all that he’d been prepared to die just a few weeks ago, he’d still rather his death serve a purpose other than his own poor planning.

A light fog rolled off the stream he’d settled next to, leaving a persistent dampness that saw him huddling closer to the fire. It was amazing how quickly he’d grown used to the routine and luxury of Camelot. He’d spent most of his life living on the road, and not even a year since his knighthood saw him wondering how he’d done it.

The stream bubbling merrily at his side brought him back to that fraught night he’d spent at Merlin’s side, half dead as he was. He remembered the warm, golden glow that surrounded them when the water spirits had showed themselves, and the overwhelming sense of peace and safety that came with it. Vilia, they’d called themselves, and they’d been beautiful. Above water they’d looked like the reflection of a woman’s face, but he remembered seeing little flashes of entirely inhuman creatures darting about underneath the water, the surface stirring with their movements. Otherworldy, but he’d never felt threatened or unnerved, not even when he took the time to bathe among them.

Feeling a bit hopeful, but mostly foolish, he rolled onto his side and stretched a hand out towards the water, his fingertips just skimming the surface. It was shockingly cold, but he let his hand sink deeper.

“Hello?”

His voice echoed in the stillness. Nothing answered.

“Are there any Vilia here?” It was an awkward question, but it was the only thing he could think to say. He waited until it became clear nothing was going show itself before rolling back over, sighing in disappointment. Nothing even remotely magical had ever happened to him before Merlin came into his life, quite literally the day they’d met. How ridiculous to think the magic would stay without him.

—

The winds over the mountain pass were icy and caustic, but the air stayed thankfully dry. His mount threw him disdainful glances, ears turned back as he forced her ever onward, but she was loyal enough not to rear up and abandon him.

The bodies disappeared about halfway up the mountain. Throughout the several days he spent making his way over the pass, he did his best never to peer over the steep cliffs surrounding him, wary of the carnage lying in wait at the bottom.

—

Balor was among the smaller of Camelot’s territories, and Lancelot could see all of it stretched before him as he made his way into the foothills on the other side of the mountains. Thick forest stretched out for miles below him, but beyond that he could see the plains where crop fields and their villages would be. If the sky was clear and the sun bright, he could just see the towers of the castle Balor’s Lord ruled from, all the way at the southern tip. It would be another three days’ journey, at least.

But the road was wide and well maintained. Balor shared a border with both Escetir and Nemeth, and as such had always been important for trade. These roads would be full to bursting come spring time, but abandoned as they were it was easy enough for Lancelot’s horse to maintain a trot for hours at a time, and they covered ground quickly.

Almost two weeks to the day since he’d set out from Camelot, just as he was leaving the forests of Balor behind, he saw signs of life for the first time during the entire journey. A plume of campfire smoke was rising, perhaps two, no more than three leagues from where he was. They were farther east than following the road would take him, and the tall grasses obscured any encampment they might have made. They could be bandits, or enemy soldiers sent to scout out Camelot’s now very weak border territories. But they could also be survivors, and so long as he was here to gather information he would have to take his chances.

He knew he’d been spotted by the time he was less than a league away. He still couldn’t see any signs of a camp, but he could see the grass swaying around someone making their way towards him. Only one, by the looks of it, but he kept his hand on the hilt of his sword nevertheless. He needn’t have bothered, as it turned out. When they were close enough to spot each other, the face he saw peering up at him belonged to a child, a boy of no more than eleven or twelve years. His pale cheeks were gaunt and smeared with dirt, his light hair cropped close to his scalp by unskilled hands, perhaps his own. He stared up at Lancelot with wide, curious eyes.

Lancelot dismounted.

“My name is Sir Lancelot,” he said, keeping his hands well away from his sword to avoid scaring the boy off. “I was sent here to help. Are you alone?” He wouldn’t be surprised if the boy was an orphan. He looked like he was starving.

But the boy shook his head. “No,” he said, and his voice rang out clear and strong, stronger than Lancelot would expect for one who looked so small and weak.

“Will you take me to the others?”

The boy said nothing for a time, and Lancelot got the distinct impression he was being weighed up. Whatever he saw in him must have been good enough, because he only nodded and turned, without a word, back towards the plume of smoke.

Lancelot stayed dismounted, leading his horse by the reins through the dry and brittle grass. It was difficult to move through, but he did his best to move quickly lest he lose sight of his guide.

The boy’s absence had been noted. As soon as they stepped foot into the circle of trampled grass that passed for a camp he was snatched up into the arms of an older man, wary eyes trained on Lancelot as he backed away.

“It’s alright Da, he’s just curious,” the boy said, but he didn’t protest at being held.

“Hush, boy,” the man, his father, quieted him, never taking his eyes off Lancelot. His voice was harsh and rough, as if from lack of water. “We’ve no quarrel with you. We only seek the border, if you’ll let us be on our way.”

Before Lancelot could offer his reassurances, a woman stepped forward and laid her hand on the man’s shoulder.

“Peace, Beorhtric,” she said, coming to stand in front of him. She was old, perhaps the elder of the group, her face set with deep wrinkles and the tight coils of her hair turned white with the years. Her dark skin hid the undereye shadows he could see on so many of the others, but he could see how sunken and tired they looked. As she moved, the heavy pendant she wore around her neck swayed with her, marked with the triskelion. She was a druid.

They were all druids.

“Why have you come to us, Sir Knight?” she asked. Her tone was polite, but her eyes were as watchful as everyone else’s in the camp. No more than twenty of them, all told. He’d never met a druid before, but from the stories he’d heard that seemed small for a full camp.

“My name is Sir Lancelot, my Lady,” he said, dropping into the bow used when greeting a woman of rank. He knew what they likely thought of him, of the red cloak draped around his shoulders, and he hoped the small show of deference might help put their minds at ease. “I was sent from Camelot to determine the fate of the people living here. You are the first I have seen since I began my journey.”

“We are likely to be the last, I fear. I’ve sensed no one in the villages we have passed.”

He didn’t know exactly what she meant by ‘sensed’, but he had no reason to doubt her word. It was what he expected to find himself.

“May I ask what happened to you? I understand that magic was a poor defense against the Dorocha.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly at the question. “It was,” she said, “though I wonder how you came to know that, living in Camelot.” He kept his face as bland as possible, hoping to make it clear that she’d get no answer from him, but it seemed she hadn’t expected one. “We lost many of our own during the first attack. We began traveling east once we felt the Dorocha leave this world. You may assure your King that we will not remain in these lands.”

A sparse account, and one carefully worded to tell him as little as possible about where they had been and where they were going. He couldn’t say he blamed her for her caution. Still, they looked so _hungry_.

“I know you have no reason to trust my intentions, but Camelot is open to refugees. If you plead your case to the Prince I’m sure he’d do all he could to aid you.” Murmurs tore through the camp as he spoke, thick with derision and doubt, but he didn’t take his eyes from the woman. It was her reaction that mattered.

“Your Prince gave you this guarantee himself, did he?”

The way she asked the question made it clear she already knew the answer, and after a few moments of desperately searching for a way to answer that wouldn’t be either a lie or a misdirection, he had to concede the point.

“No,” he sighed, “he did not.”

Surprisingly, her face softened when he admitted it. “I believe you made the offer out of kindness, but you would do well to remember the nature of those you’ve sworn your allegiance to. Even if your Prince does what you’ve promised, he cannot stop a mob whose hatred of magic has only been given more fuel.”

As a rebuke, it was a gentle one, but he heard it nonetheless. With that line of conversation effectively closed, there was only one other thing he could think to ask.

“Why leave Camelot? I respect that you wouldn’t come to the city, but the Prince has specifically ordered that your people are to be left in peace. If someone has made threats against you, he would wish to know.” At least Lancelot would like to believe so. It was more of a declaration that Druids living within Camelot’s borders would not be actively pursued than a peace treaty, but he was certain the intent behind it had been the same, even if Arthur could not overturn the Druids’ banishment.

A strange sort of tension ran through the group at his question, eyes flickering to the ground and shoulders hunching. Fear. What were they afraid of?

“Many things are not as we thought they would be,” the woman said, a deep well of sadness in her eyes. “This land is sick. I am not sure it will ever recover. If you are wise, you will leave as well.”

“Sick with what?” Lancelot asked, alarm taking hold at the seriousness in her face and voice. “Have we been cursed?”

“In a manner of speaking, but this is not a curse that can be banished with any magic I am familiar with. I've seen nothing like it. I am sorry I cannot be of more help.”

It was an effort for Lancelot to hold back the questions burning on his tongue, but an interrogation was not what he’d come here for. He should count himself lucky they’d been as open as they had. Lord knew they had reason enough not to be.

He bowed again, deeper than before in thanks. “Then I shall take my leave of you. Forgive me for not escorting you to the border, but I must see to the rest of my errand.”

“Travel safely, Sir Knight. Perhaps we will meet again,” she said as he remounted. He nodded in acknowledgment, turned his horse back towards the main road, and was gone.

—

The portcullis guarding Balor’s citadel was raised, no guards in sight either on the ground or in the watchtowers surrounding it. It wasn’t surprising, but it was a disappointment.

If anyone had survived the attack, they were long gone now. Bodies littered the streets and spilled from houses, jewelery and fine clothing left undisturbed. No bandits, then.

He made as much noise as he could to announce his presence, calling out every few minutes as he moved through abandoned streets and marketplaces, but no one answered. The echo of his own voice sounded disturbingly loud in the silence.

It was clear enough what had happened. Piles of ash had built up around grates and in hearths, the remains of burned up torches scattered everywhere. They’d discovered fire as a defense just as Camelot had, but unlike Camelot they hadn’t the stores necessary to keep the fires burning. Almost every house he went into was completely devoid of wooden furniture, tables and chairs and cupboards all missing, or at least partially destroyed. They'd even begun dismantling some of the buildings, torn them apart board by board. They’d been scrounging for fuel, and eventually it hadn’t been enough.

A depressing end to a two week journey, made even worse by knowing he’d have to tell Arthur, but there was no sense in delaying. He spurred his horse back through the main gate, turning his back on the ruined city of Balor.

There was nothing he could do for them now.

—

The Druids had moved on by the time he returned, no campfire smoke visible on the horizon. His return journey was almost entirely uneventful, except for one morning after he’d returned to the shelter of the trees from the plains behind him. A flash of bright white among the underbrush caught his eye. He might have mistaken it for a wild horse had he not caught sight of the spiraled, devastatingly sharp horn on its forehead.

It was a unicorn, and it was dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back in business boys! I don't know what it was about this chapter, maybe it's just because not a lot happened. Hope it wasn't too boring lol, but some things in here are going to be expanded on later and I wanted to introduce Lancelot as one of the POV characters. 
> 
> Also, I can't believe I forgot to mention this, but I'm pulling the locations from the amazing Map of Camelot that versaphile put together. It's not important for understanding what's going on, but if you do want to see all the places I'm talking about that's where I got them.
> 
> Also also, I wanted to give a big thank you to everyone who commented! I know I'm spotty about responding to comments, but I read them all and I love every one of you.


	7. Chapter 7

As a girl, Morgana had kept a journal. Arthur knew that because he’d stolen it when he was thirteen, parading around the castle with it as she chased him, shouting at him through angry tears. It wasn’t until his— _their_ father caught up to them that he’d been stopped. Uther told him only the most pathetic of men thought the private things of a girl were spoils to be proud of, and supervised him as he sheepishly handed it back, shame crawling up his neck when he saw how much she’d cried.

It was a disappointment learning she hadn’t kept it up.

His men had brought back a total of forty two books from Morgana’s hut, their yellowed pages and scratched bindings betraying their age. Most of them were about magic, but there were a handful about the uses of wild plants and a few fictional stories, even one about the properties of different precious metals. It was a lot of books for one man to flip through, but it would have felt wrong to give them out to others, like he was a boy of thirteen again handing out his spoils to an audience who wouldn’t, couldn’t appreciate them.

Some of them had notes in Morgana’s handwriting scratched into the margins, and it was on these he focused his attention. She hadn’t dated any of her writings, and it was impossible to tell when she’d made them or in what order, but he was able to piece together a rough picture of what she’d been up to.

He’d found an entire book dedicated to the rituals and beliefs of the High Priestesses, and it looked like this was the one she spent the most time with. Most of its contents weren’t bad at all, just a bit strange. The High Priestesses had acted as the spiritual authority for their people in the days before Christianity had come to Camelot, blessing newborns and offering protection from disasters both natural and man made alike. Many of the notes in this regard were Morgana’s attempts to adapt the rituals for a single participant, though he noted with a touch of sadness that she seemed to have skipped over the spells for protection. Who did she have to protect, after all?

The entry for the blood sacrifice was at the back of the book, heavily written over. If the original writings were to be believed, she’d changed things. A lot. The High Priestesses had performed a blood sacrifice every year, just as Gaius had said, but it wasn’t to tear the veil. The opposite, in fact. It was to _strengthen_ it, to keep the relationship between the living and the dead as it was meant to be. Being the sacrifice was apparently a great honor, and there were rituals and spells listed for finding only the most willing and pure of heart to participate. While the very idea of human sacrifice was enough to turn his stomach, it wasn't the picture of cold-blooded murder Gaius had painted. Had he lied, or simply not known the truth? Was this book even the truth?

He learned through a tear stained page that Morgause wasn’t going to be a problem anymore.

At the end of all his research, he’d learned a great deal about the kind of things she’d studied, but it told him nothing about what she was planning next.

—

One by one, the riders he’d sent out returned.

Not all of them came bearing bad news. The Dorocha had spread mostly to the east and south, and the northern most provinces of Andor, Everwick, and the Northern Plains were mostly alright, though Lord Cenhelm of the Northern Plains had died. The larger provinces of Ascetir, Brechia, and Denaria had also done relatively okay. It was from those places that many of the refugees had come, and over one hundred of them packed their belongings and left when they heard news of survivors. There were still hundreds left in the citadel, but the castle breathed a sigh of relief as some of its burden was relieved.

Those were the bright spots in an otherwise dark story.

Daobeth had been decimated, as had Asgorath. Lord Eadric of Isgaard and Lord Godwine of Eofham were dead, and almost their entire remaining populations were being housed in Camelot. All told, over fifty villages around the kingdom were now empty, an open invitation to squatting bandits or an invading army. Before the Dorocha, he’d had dozens of scouts patrolling the borders and knights stationed at garrisons, and with each passing day it grew more unlikely he’d hear from any of them again. All he was waiting on now was for Sir Cador and Lancelot to return from Nemeton and Balor, but whatever they had to say was unlikely to change much.

Fifty villages were empty, and they had the people to fill a dozen of them. Maybe.

“We have to pull the borders back.” Lord Patton’s voice was hushed, as if he couldn’t believe he was even suggesting such a thing. The backlash from the rest of the council was as immediate as it was predictable.

“Why not throw in a declaration of war while we’re at it?” Lord Alden spat, venom backed by fear dripping from every word. “They’ll attack as soon as they get wind of any weakness.” He didn’t specify who _they_ were, but he didn’t need to. Nemeth, Escetir, Mercia, any of them. All of them.

“Repopulate the outlying villages then, to supply the garrisons.”

“How are we supposed to supply them with the supply lines cut off?”

“If we man the garrisons there won’t be anyone left to defend the citadel.”

“It will take months to make those villages livable again, how would we defend ourselves in the meantime?”

New voices butted in every few seconds, blurring together into a mass of squabbling that more closely resembled birds than people. These days, it was all his council seemed able to accomplish.

“Enough.” He didn’t shout, slumped in his seat with the most bone deep exhaustion he’d ever felt, but they quieted down nevertheless. “Allow me some time to decide.” Dismissal was clear in his voice, but he still saw shock in the glances they exchanged amongst themselves. It was well within his prerogative to dismiss his council and make a decision on his own, but this was the first time he’d ever done it. Something in his face must have convinced them he was serious though, because eventually they rose and filed out the door.

He felt a flash of resentment as they left. They might bicker over the best course of action to take, but as soon as they left this room they could put all their disagreements aside, content with knowing the final decision wasn’t theirs to make. He might not yet have sat in the King’s throne, but he could see it in his mind’s eye, looming behind him.

Agravaine was the only one who hadn’t left.

“Tell me honestly, Uncle,” he said, pushing out of his seat and moving towards the windows, the heat of the sun contrasting with the chill of the glass, “what do you think I should do?”

Agravaine came to stand by him, his reflection in the window showing a thoughtful expression. Arthur tried not to let the extended silence twist into anxiety.

“I think you should man the garrisons, whatever the cost.”

Arthur’s eyes fluttered shut. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “We’ll be spread too thin to protect ourselves.”

Agravaine shrugged, a gesture that seemed so casual when Arthur was fighting through the desperate fear helplessness inspired. “We’re already in no position to win a war. The only way to prevent one may be to convince our neighbors we are still strong.”

It made some kind of sense, even if Arthur could poke a thousand holes in his plan. Which garrisons to choose, and for that matter which villages? Would he be able to convince his people to uproot their entire lives to a place they’d never been before, where they would likely be in the most danger? If he had to make it an order, would they stay loyal when sanctuary in another kingdom was so close? How would they move large groups of people and supplies to the border without intermediary villages to resupply at, and how swift and reliable would communication be?

Well, he’d asked for an opinion. “Thank you. I…I’ll think on it.”

Agravaine inclined his head and left, the silence left in his wake pressing down on him like a shroud.

—

He wasn’t entirely sure why he thought his father’s chambers would be the best place to think things through, when lately he tended to avoid them more often than not. Maybe because he’d been torturing himself with thoughts of Morgana for days now, and he wanted to be close to the only family he had left.

Not that Uther ever knew he was there. He was as unresponsive as ever, staring blankly out the window with a blanket wrapped tight around his shoulders, skin growing paler and beard growing longer with each passing day. It inspired a strange mixture of sadness and anger in Arthur. He’d returned, hadn’t he? Given his father exactly what he wanted, and he didn’t even notice. Was his life only worthy of note when it was in danger of ending, or had he been afraid because he knew that without Arthur, there would be no one left to clean up the mess he’d made of all their lives with his lies.

“You told me once that I’d have to get used to people dying for me.”

He remembered Merlin’s unhesitating resolve drinking the poisoned chalice, his determination staring Arthur down at the Labyrinth of Gedref. _I’m happy to be your servant until the day I die._ He’d done everything in his power to prevent that day from coming, and still he’d failed.

“I think I get it now. I thought you meant that our people’s lives were unworthy of protection, that they were useful only in how they could serve us, but maybe…” Maybe death was the better option. Dying was easy; he’d been prepared to die dozens of times in his life, and never regretted the life he’d led up to that point. But there was always an aftermath. No matter how bad things got, how many lives had been ruined, someone had to pick up the pieces. Someone had to clean up the mess.

Maybe it was only fair that person was him.

He huffed out a little laugh, bringing his thumbs up to rub at the bridge of his nose.

“I’m pulling back the borders.” He said it forcefully, in the way he’d been practicing to ward off any argument from the council, but Uther didn’t so much as twitch. “I’m telling you this because you also taught me that showing weakness is the one thing I should never do, and I have tried to live up to everything you taught me, but…” and this was the hardest thing to say, “…I don’t think I can rule the way you did, father.”

Because his father was the sort of man who could take another man’s wife to bed, before leaving him to die and lying to the daughter he’d sired for over a decade. His father, who put on a veneer of strength for their neighbors while hunting down children he felt threatened by. His father, who let servants die for him without ever bestowing the honor such a sacrifice deserved.

His father, who was probably going to leave this world sooner rather than later.

It had been easy to push these thoughts away when he could still pretend his Regency was temporary, when his father could have recovered any day and taken this burden from his shoulders. Even later on, he’d done his best to emulate his father’s decisions in a kingdom that had not yet seen a peaceful transition of power.

It wasn’t until Merlin died that he could admit the voice he heard guiding his decisions hadn’t sounded like his father in a long time.

And he didn’t _care_ about appearing strong. He cared about giving his people the best chance to recover, even if that meant looking weak in the eyes of their enemies.

“I just hope you can forgive me for that.”

Uther said nothing.

—

The council reacted better than he thought they would. There was no shouting at least, even if it was replaced with dumbfounded silence.

“We do not have the numbers to fill all of the villages we lost, and I cannot justify the expense of defending so much empty territory. So, I’ve decided to abandon Daobeth and Asgorath, as well as Landshire up to the White Mountains.” _There_ was some of the murmuring he’d expected. “I will of course wait for Sirs Cador and Lancelot to return with their reports before finalizing this decision, but we may have to cede territory in the south as well.”

He threw a hand up to stop the protests before they started. “This is not up for debate, but I understand your concerns about security. With a smaller perimeter to defend we should be able to maintain a strong enough presence on our eastern border to discourage any invaders. We are weak, there’s no use in pretending otherwise, but right now our first priority should be providing the safest possible place for our people to rebuild.”

It had to be enough.

—

Lancelot rode through the portcullis several days later, the last of Arthur’s men to return. Sir Cador had returned the day before, bringing surprisingly welcome news of Nemeton’s survival, but Arthur could tell from the look on Lancelot’s face that Balor hadn’t been so lucky. Still, Arthur clapped him on the shoulder when he dismounted, glad to see him home safely.

“Welcome home,” he said, trying to catch Lancelot’s eye with a smile, but Lancelot dropped into a bow before he could.

“Thank you, My Lord.”

Arthur sighed, stepping back with one last pat to the back. Lancelot always fell back on formality when he was uncomfortable or upset, and there was little to be done except wait for him to work it out.

“Take some time to wash up, you can join us in the Great Hall when you’re ready.”

Lancelot hesitated, eyes flicking between the windows of the Great Hall above them and somewhere over Arthur’s shoulder. “If it’s alright, I’d rather join you now.”

Arthur couldn’t really blame him for wanting to get this over with, so he only nodded and guided them towards his waiting councilors. Everyone stood when they entered, heads bowed respectfully until Arthur had taken his seat, Lancelot in the place of honor before him.

“What did you find in Balor, Sir Lancelot?”

“Nothing, My Lord,” he said, the mood of the room dropping noticeably in response, “I’m sorry to say that I found no survivors, either in the villages or the citadel.”

“Are you certain?” Arthur asked, leaning forward until his forearms were braced on his knees.

“It is possible some survived, I did not have time to search every village, but I do not know where they might have taken refuge.”

“What of Lord Osgar and his family?”

Lancelot looked down, shoulders curling forward. “Dead,” he said, as if it were a personal failing of his.

Arthur hadn’t expected anything different, but he sighed in disappointment nevertheless. “We’ll hold a memorial service for them.” The list of people to be included in that service was growing ever longer. “Thank you for bringing us the news. Was there anything else to report?”

“No, My Lord, the borders were quiet. I saw no sign of either bandits or enemy scouts.”

That, at least, was a heartening bit of news, and Arthur nodded in acknowledgment, dismissing the room.

Lancelot turned and made his way out the door quickly, shoulders slumped in exhaustion. It was only a moment’s indecision before Arthur decided to follow him, waving away those that would waylay him.

“Lancelot, wait!” Lancelot’s eyes were drooping when he turned, and Arthur felt a bit bad about delaying his rest even further, but if he didn’t say this now he doubted he ever would. Everyone else knew now, it seemed only fair that Lancelot knew too.

“Something happened while you were away,” he began, guiding Lancelot away from the others leaving the Great Hall and into a somewhat more secluded corridor.

“Is everything alright?”

“Nothing like that, everything’s fine —” why could he never find the words to begin these kinds of conversations? “It’s to do with Merlin.” He swallowed around a dry throat, resolved to keep talking despite the pain in Lancelot’s eyes. “I never told any of you why we were traveling to the Isle of the Blessed or how I planned to stop the Dorocha, but I _did_ have a plan. You should know that it was never supposed to be him, it was supposed —”

“Arthur,” Lancelot interrupted him, holding up a hand to stop the flow of his words. He said nothing else, but it didn’t take Arthur long to read the guilt now written in to his expression, to decipher the words he hadn’t said.

“You knew?”

Lancelot didn’t answer in words, dropping instead to one knee and grasping his hand, like a penitent serf begging clemency from his lord. “I am so sorry,” he said, the words bursting forth as if he’d been holding them back for some time. “I should have tried harder to convince him to return to Camelot, I should have —” he cut himself off abruptly, breath ragged as if he were barely restraining himself from continuing.

In a blinding moment of clarity, Arthur realized he had two options for responding. It would be _so_ easy to take all the guilt that had haunted him for weeks and project it onto Lancelot. He was right after all, Merlin wouldn’t be dead if he’d never been there in the first place, and it was Lancelot who’d been tasked with taking him back to Camelot. He could let it all go right now, take all his anger and frustration out on this man who was offering himself up as a target, and maybe then he could move on. Maybe then he could finally sleep at night, without the terrifying visions that stalked his dreams.

But he knew what that kind of guilt felt like, how it festered inside you like a wound, and from the looks of him Lancelot had been suffering from it for as long as Arthur had. He wouldn’t wish that feeling on his worst enemy, let alone one of his closest friends.

“Stand up, Lancelot,” he said, grasping his hand tighter and pulling him upright. Lancelot went willingly, but still wouldn’t look him in the eye. “Merlin told you then, about what I planned to do?”

Slowly, hesitantly, Lancelot nodded. “He was so insistent about returning, but it doesn’t excuse —”

“Lancelot,” Arthur interrupted, exasperated and heartsore and, despite it all, a little bit amused, “Merlin never listened to a word I said. I don’t think you stood a chance.”

“He was determined not to let you die,” Lancelot said softly, before his eyes hardened, “As was I. I hope you know that.”

“Of course I—” He’d never doubted Lancelot’s loyalty, but somehow he didn’t think that's what he was trying to say. “You were going to take Merlin’s place.” He didn’t say it as a question, but still he hoped Lancelot would deny it. He didn’t, the shifty look in his eye all the confirmation Arthur needed.

Arthur took a deep breath. “I…appreciate that you wanted to protect me, but my life and my decisions are my own. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sire,” Lancelot said, lips puckered as if the words themselves were sour. That was good enough, he supposed.

“Look, I know it’s tempting to think about what we could have done differently, believe me, I know, but the Cailleach decided she wanted Merlin. I don’t think there’s anything we could have done to change that.”

“The Cailleach?” Lancelot asked, brows drawn together slightly in confusion.

“The woman at the altar. Did Merlin not tell you about her?”

Lancelot schooled his expression into something much more neutral. “No, he did, I just…I’d forgotten.”

That seemed unlikely, but Lancelot clearly wasn't going to elaborate, so Arthur just said, “You’ve had a long few weeks. Go rest, take your time. I’ll have a meal sent up to you and you can join us in the morning.”

“Of course, thank you Sire. I…it’s good to be back.”

Arthur watched him go, unable to shake the feeling he was missing something.

—

 _He shouldn’t have lied._ It was the one thought running over and over through Lancelot’s mind, and the reason he was currently heading for Gaius’s tower rather than the bed he desperately wanted to collapse into.

He hadn’t meant to lie, was the thing. This wasn’t the first time he’d run across magic in his time as a knight, but in the past all he had to do was act as a distraction before passing the relevant information on to Merlin. Merlin would take care of it, and Lancelot could rest easy knowing the kingdom was safe and Arthur wouldn’t be forced to start a witch hunt. It was habit more than anything that made him say what he had.

But Merlin wasn’t here anymore, and Lancelot had information about what might be a curse with no idea what to do about it.

Gaius looked up from his mortar when Lancelot walked in, empty vials off to the side and a book propped open as a reference. It was surprising to see him hard at work, somehow, though Lancelot wasn’t sure why. It had been an entire month since they’d last seen each other after all. But Gaius had seemed so tired and worn at the funeral. If Lancelot were only seeing him now, he’d never have guessed this was a grieving man.

“Ah, Lancelot, welcome back. Did you need something?” Even his voice was normal, steady and smooth.

Lancelot shook off his surprise. “I did, yes,” he said, shutting the door firmly behind him. “Do you have a moment?” he asked, unwilling to interrupt Gaius’s work but equally unwilling to wait. Easier to leave the decision up to Gaius.

Gaius set the pestle down in answer, gesturing for Lancelot to come in. He moved forward and took a seat at the table.

Having spent enough time in this exact spot in the past, he could recognize something subtly different in the grooves underneath his thighs. “Is this new?” he asked, running his fingers over the shinier, more polished grains in the wood.

Gaius nodded, robes trailing behind him as he came to stand at the table’s head. “It came from one of the empty houses in town,” he said, bracing his hand against the edge. “I suppose I’ll have to get used to it, but somehow having it doesn’t feel right.” It was a morbid thought, knowing a family had likely taken their meals here little more than a month ago, and Lancelot had to resist the urge to back away from it. “But that’s neither here nor there,” Gaius continued, banishing the melancholy that had fallen over the room, “What can I do for you?”

“While I was in Balor,” he began, squeezing his interlocked fingers together and letting the slight ache in his knuckles keep him focused, “I met a small group of Druids heading for the border. Their elder, she told me the land was sick. I was hoping you might know what she meant.”

“Did she describe the sickness?”

“No, she said she’d seen nothing like it before, and that if we were wise we would leave Camelot.”

Gaius pondered, lowering himself onto the bench as he thought.

“There’s more. On my way back, just before the Mountains of Isgaard, I…” he pitched his voice lower, as if the words themselves had the power to do harm, “I saw a dead unicorn.”

Gaius’s head snapped up, the thoughtfulness on his face replaced with alarm. “Are you certain it was dead?”

“Yes.” It’d had a strange waxiness to its skin when he touched it, looking for any sign of a pulse or breath and coming up empty. “But the strange thing was it had no wounds. I don’t know what killed it.”

“Well, I highly doubt it was the Druids,” Gaius said. “Did you come across anyone else nearby?”

Lancelot shook his head. “Could it have been Morgana? I’ve heard stories about the curse on Camelot when Arthur killed a unicorn. Perhaps she was trying to replicate it.”

“The curse affects the one who killed, it wouldn’t be in Morgana’s power to direct it. And even so, she was spotted by the castle not long ago. She couldn't have made it so far south so quickly.”

“She was _here_?” Lancelot asked, eyebrows climbing high on his own forehead. “Why?”

“We don’t know. Whatever the reason, she’s gone now.”

Morgana had always seemed a somewhat distant threat to him before. He’d known whose immortal army he was fighting, of course, but he’d never known the woman Arthur and Merlin had, and he’d always been confident in Merlin’s ability to match her. But now Merlin was gone, and Lancelot could admit he was afraid. She inspired the same feeling in him the griffin had; an enemy he knew he couldn’t fight.

“If not Morgana, then what?”

“I’ve never heard of a unicorn dying a natural death, but I suppose it is possible,” Gaius said, moving to his shelves and browsing through the tomes. “Allow me some time to look into it. What did Arthur say about all this?”

Lancelot looked away. “I uh…haven’t told him.”

Gaius turned, a single eyebrow raised in judgment.

“I wasn’t sure I should,” Lancelot hurried to explain, a flush creeping over his cheeks. How had Merlin lived with this man for so long, when Lancelot felt like a child in only a few minutes? “It was always Merlin who—” how to phrase this? “— _handled_ things. I was hoping…” he trailed off, realizing he was essentially asking Gaius to replace the man who’d been like a son to him.

Gaius sighed, shoulders slumping. “I am not nearly as powerful as Merlin, and even if I was I won’t be much use outside of the castle. Arthur needs to know.”

“Of course,” Lancelot said, conceding to Gaius’s reasoning. He stood and made ready to leave, but one last thought stopped him just before he made it to the door.

“Arthur believes the Cailleach chose Merlin.”

Of course he would believe that, what other conclusion could he come to with the information he had? But the last Lancelot had seen of Merlin was him standing with an arm outstretched, an apology in his golden eyes. He knew better, and the fact that Arthur did not seemed unaccountably sad, all of a sudden.

Some of that sadness shone through on Gaius’s face. “Telling him the truth would only hurt him more.”

“I know,” Lancelot said, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. “I’ll go tell him what he needs to know.”

—

Despite his words to Gaius, he waited until the next morning to say anything. Arthur was busy, and Lancelot really was exhausted. But when he woke to the sun shining through his windows, he knew he couldn’t justify putting it off any longer. If something magical was going on from here to Balor, they’d need help, and Arthur was in the best position to find it.

Still, he was nervous. Merlin’s greatest fear had been watching Arthur go down the same road as his father, and now he had more reason than most to hate magic. There was a chance, however small, that Lancelot could be sparking the next Purge by bringing this news, and it was a duty he could selfishly wish hadn’t fallen to him.

Arthur called out for him to enter.

His chambers were as cold as the rest of the castle, but bright and welcoming with the curtains thrown wide. Arthur was seated at his desk, surrounded by a stack of books with one open in his hands.

“Have I interrupted?” Lancelot asked, still half in the doorway. Arthur looked up at his voice.

“Lancelot,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased to see him. It made the knots in Lancelot’s stomach twist themselves even tighter. “Not at all. What did you need?” He set the book aside, standing and circling to the front side of the desk. Lancelot shut the door behind himself.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but my report to you yesterday wasn’t complete.”

“Not complete?” Arthur asked, a frown replacing the pleasant look he’d been wearing just moments ago.

Lancelot experienced a sudden, intense sort of fellow feeling with Merlin, because lying had never come naturally to him, but lying to Arthur was especially difficult. He’d only told one lie, and even fixing it spiraled out into more lies. He had no idea how Merlin had done this for years.

“There were things I didn’t want to say in front of the council, but that you should know.”

Arthur stayed silent, with an expression as if to say _I’m waiting_. Lancelot clasped his hands behind his back.

“While I was in Balor, I found a group of Druids.”

Arthur’s eyes narrowed. “Were they heading for the border?”

“I…yes,” Lancelot said, dumbfounded. “How did you know?”

“Because I’ve had two more reports of the same thing, one from Andor and another from Everwick.” He leaned back, resting his weight against the desk and crossing his arms over his chest. “Signs of Druids all making their way out of Camelot. What no one has been able to tell me is why. They’ve been banished for twenty years, hasn’t stopped them from staying in the kingdom.”

“They’re fleeing,” Lancelot said, before he’d decided how he wanted to approach this. Arthur’s gaze whipped towards him.

“You spoke to them?”

Lancelot nodded, neck twinging with how stiffly he’d been holding himself. He made a conscious effort to try and relax. “Their elder said the land was sick, that she’d seen nothing like it before. They were afraid.”

The skin between Arthur’s brow wrinkled in concern, but his voice stayed steady. “This sickness, did she describe it?”

“No.”

Arthur pushed off the desk and started to pace, a hand rubbing at the back of his neck. “A sickness could explain the trees, but that doesn’t seem like it would be enough to terrify Druids into leaving.”

“The trees, Sire?” Lancelot asked.

Arthur blinked. “Oh, that’s right, I forgot you weren’t here. A cluster of trees around a lake to the north have all died, but we aren’t sure why. We’ve been watching them for weeks, and whatever caused it doesn’t seem to be spreading. Did you see anything that could be a sign of this sickness?”

Hesitantly, he nodded. “There was a unicorn in the forest, dead.”

The concern on Arthur’s face morphed into outright worry, and Lancelot hurried on, “I’ve already spoken to Gaius about it. He said a unicorn’s curse only targets the person who killed it, and this unicorn didn’t look like it’d been killed at all. It was just dead.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

“I didn’t know there’d been other reports about Druids, I didn’t want to start a panic. People are on edge about magic, I thought it would be better to tell you in private. I swear to you I didn’t think the danger was immediate, I would have told you at once if I had.”

Arthur seemed to accept that, nodding and resuming his slow pacing. A rush of guilt flooded Lancelot at how easily his story was accepted, not because he thought Arthur easy to manipulate, but because he knew he had Arthur’s trust. It was a bit nauseating, knowing he’d taken advantage of that.

“You’re right about that. I had about a dozen petitions to send people after the Druids.”

“You disagreed?” Lancelot asked, trying to sound as unaccusatory as possible. Arthur turned serious eyes on him.

“We know exactly who was responsible for this, and it wasn’t the Druids. I won’t make anyone a scapegoat.”

The tension finally seeped out of Lancelot’s body, his shoulders loosening and his breath steadying. Arthur must have noticed his sudden change in mood.

“Did you think I would?”

“I had…concerns,” Lancelot said, opting for honesty over politeness.

“Well, the next time you think I’m embracing tyranny I hope you’ll tell me,” Arthur said with a half smile, and Lancelot didn’t think he was imagining the thread of humor in his voice. Cautiously, he smiled back.

Whatever he might have said in response was cut off when the warning bell rang loud and clear through the castle, an unnatural hush falling just before the courtyard burst into activity, the screams of civilians making their way to safety not quite drowning out the clamor of men in arms making their way to their posts.

Arthur and Lancelot were out the door without a word, joining the rush of men moving towards the armory. Leon was among them.

“What’s happened?” Arthur asked, an air of command falling over him.

“I don’t know,” Leon said, a bit out of breath. “The alarm came from the front watchtower.”

Word of the alarm's origin must have spread, because most of the knights had gathered in the courtyard by the time they arrived, swords in hand. Their formation was good, designed to protect a choke point from enemy infantry, but line of sight from the courtyard was too poor for them to know exactly what they'd be facing.

"Come on." Arthur ushered them towards the stairs leading to the lower battlements, where the front watchtower was. They were crawling with pages, the young boys hauling bags of crossbow bolts out of storage to the men stationed along the wall. Lancelot didn't often patrol the battlements, but it looked like there were more than usual. 

When they made it to the top, Arthur zeroed in on the guard captain stationed at the watchtower. Lancelot made to follow him, but Leon's hand on his shoulder drew him back.

"Look," he said, hand pointing out to the south. 

A shadow was flying low on the horizon, shifting and changing like an ink stain making its way over a tabletop. Brief flashes of sunlight would appear at its center, meaning it wasn't solid, but other than that he had no idea what it could be. Whatever it was, it was gaining fast.

Leon’s eyes must have been much keener than his, because he took one look at it and muttered, “Wyverns.” Lancelot could tell from his face that he was certain.

“There must be dozens of them,” he said, understanding now why so many crossbows had been brought up. From this distance he’d guess the flock was half a mile wide, maybe more. They’d struggled against a handful.

A few paces away, Arthur’s gaze was fixed on the horizon, a hand on his forehead to shadow his eyes. The guard captain stood just behind him.

“I’ve stationed men all along the castle walls, but we don’t have enough to move into town.”

Arthur nodded. “Leon, send out a crier. Tell everyone left in town to say indoors, keep their windows and doors closed. And tell the men in the courtyard to fan out in pairs. Lancelot, you’re with me.”

They moved to the wall above the portcullis, where they not only had a good vantage point of both the town and the men stationed behind them, but where it would be easy for everyone to see Arthur’s signal. The flock was moving closer, and if he squinted Lancelot thought he could make out the flapping of wings along its edges. They’d be here in minutes.

“Archers!” Arthur shouted, right fist raised high above his head. The creaking of crossbows being drawn back and locked filled the air. The town below went still as the last of the stragglers found shelter indoors. 

Lancelot heard them before he could fully make them out, a windstorm making its way ever closer, that strangely high pitched growling and chirping just barely reaching his ears. They were over the forest, the fields, crossing the border of the lower town, and then, "Fire!"

Arthur dropped his hand and hundreds of bolts let loose, their speed creating another wind at Lancelot's back. Growls turned to shrieks as one, two, three, and more fell from the sky, thatched roofs splintering where they landed while knights on the ground rushed forward to finish them off. It wasn't enough, and suddenly they were close enough for Lancelot to see clearly.

Typically wyverns hunted by surrounding their prey, cutting off any exits and overwhelming them. He expected the pack to split and encircle the castle, kept his sword at the ready in anticipation, but they didn't.

They did nothing at all.

A brief darkness descended over them as the wyverns blocked out the sun, but the pack did not split or make any move to attack. It was as if they didn't even notice their fallen. They flew right over the castle without ever looking down or back.

They were gone before the archers even had a chance to reload. 

—

“Gaius, what is going on?”

When it became obvious the wyverns weren’t going to return, which didn’t take long, Arthur left the battlements in favor of Gaius’s tower. 

“I’ve had reports of Druids fleeing in droves,” he continued, “Lancelot tells me he spotted a dead unicorn, and now this.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know, Sire.”

“You must,” he snapped, before sighing and taking a step back. This wasn’t an interrogation, and Gaius didn’t deserve to have all of Arthur’s fears and frustrations taken out on him. “Gaius, please,” he said, putting effort into keeping his voice even, “you’re the only one who can tell me anything. Any theory you have, any guesses, I would appreciate them.”

Gaius clasped his hands behind his back. “We have no evidence that these events are connected at all. Until I know the cause, or causes, there’s very little I can say with certainty.”

“Alright, for the sake of argument, let’s say they are connected. Where would you tell me to look?”

“I would revisit the lake,” Gaius said after a moment's thought, and Arthur suppressed a groan.

“We’ve already searched the lake, there’s nothing there.”

“Just because you found no answers does not mean there are none to find,” he said, in a tone that brought to mind Arthur’s schooling days. “As far as we know, that lake is the first of these occurrences, and we know Morgana was interested in it. Clearly we are missing something.”

“I understand that, but we’ve searched the shore, the forest, even into the water. I don't know where else we can look.”

“There is another place,” Gaius said, then paused. Arthur looked up. With a deep breath, he continued, “There are some who believe, myself among them, that that lake is the lake of Avalon.”

Arthur blinked. “I thought that was a myth.”

“Most do. But if Morgana believed it to be real, she may have sought something from the beings that live there.”

“And you think I should do the same?” Gaius nodded. “How do I do that?”

“I can prepare an offering for you. There is nothing I can do to force the Shide to speak, but it won’t hurt to ask.”

Arthur highly doubted that, but he was becoming desperate for answers. If this was what Gaius recommended, he would see it through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, at least I managed to get this done before February was over. At least for me, maybe not for you guys.
> 
> I really struggled with where to end this chapter, which you might have guessed since it's like, three times longer than all the other chapters. I hope the POV switches weren't too confusing, but splitting it up into separate chapters made it feel like the story was starting to drag on, and I want to get things moving. 
> 
> Arthur's scene with Uther was another one of the early ones I imagined up, there's one more coming up soon and then the rest is just me winging it as I go lol. Thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

Considering Gwaine genuinely thought Arthur might have sacrificed Merlin, Lancelot feared he might slaughter the Druids already fleeing the kingdom, and Elyan still couldn’t quite look him in the eye, he probably should have expected the silence hanging over his Round Table as they rode out to the lake, but somehow it managed to surprise him. Only now that it was gone was the easy camaraderie they’d always shared thrown into such stark relief in his memory. The people at his back felt more like strangers now than the day he’d met them, and he couldn’t tell if the problem stemmed from them, or from himself.

Then again, he’d never interacted with them without Merlin by his side. Perhaps he’d always been the problem, and just hadn’t realized it until now.

The lake appearing before them was almost a relief.

He dismounted as close to the spot Morgana had come to as he could remember, now that the wind had long since blown her footprints away, the others following suit.

“Wait here,” he said, gaze fixed on the shimmering, placid water before him. “Stay alert, but remember that we are here to talk. Nothing more.”

Removing the bundle Gaius had prepared for him from his saddlebag, he crouched down on the shore and placed it gently in the water. There were words he was supposed to say, words that felt blasphemous to even think, but before he could so much as open his mouth a flash of white caught his eye, his men crying out in shock behind him.

He hadn’t given much thought to what one of the Fair Folk might look like, but when he looked up the creature standing before him in the water wore the face of a young woman, her pale skin and dress almost blinding in the sunlight. Slowly, Arthur stood.

“Hello, Arthur Pendragon,” she said, and now that he was at his full height he could see that she wasn’t a woman at all, but a girl of no more than sixteen or seventeen years, her head coming only to his shoulder. Her dress was ragged and torn, but washed clean by the water, her dark brown hair dripping heavy before her face. She was beautiful, softness and fragility combining into an ethereal air, but underneath that he could see a sunken look to her eyes, a sallowness to her skin. She looked ill, and it was hard to feel threatened by someone so unintimidating.

It was possible this was a ploy.

“You have me at a disadvantage, My Lady. Am I speaking to an emissary of Avalon?”

Instead of answering, she tilted her head to the side and considered him, acknowledging and dismissing his men with only a flick of her eyes.

“Do you recognize me?”

The question took him off guard, inspiring a flare of panic he hoped didn’t show on his face. The girl’s face betrayed nothing, her eyes fixed unwaveringly on Arthur’s own.

Was this a trick question? Was there a right and wrong answer, a deeper meaning he wasn’t understanding, or was she only after the truth? He poured over his memory looking for her face, hidden in a crowd or passed in a corridor, and came up empty.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t,” he said, tentative in a way his father would have glowered at. 

The girl nodded, seeming neither pleased nor displeased with his answer, before dropping the subject entirely.

“You are here because you have felt the shift in the magical world.”

The certainty she said it with was unsettling. If he was supposed to recognize her, then the obvious answer was that he was being watched. Keeping his hand away from his sword was an effort, but betraying his uneasiness was a diplomatic misstep he couldn’t afford. Denying it was pointless, so he said, “I only wish to know if my people are safe.”

“For now, yes,” she said, turning away from him to stare out into the dead forest. “ _You_ have not been cursed, if that is what worries you, and neither has your kingdom. You are just caught in the middle.”

If there had been any doubt in his mind about this girl being magic, it was banished by the time she finished speaking. She had that way of talking all sorcerers seemed to share, which managed to be both irritatingly vague and patronizing at the same time. He got the feeling she would give him nothing more than exactly what he asked for.

“Do you know what is causing this?”

It was apparently the wrong question to ask. The girl seemed to collapse in on herself, her shoulders hunching and her arms wrapping tight around her middle. She did not cry, but the pain radiating from her was so strong that Arthur had to fight the instinct to comfort her. He knew grief when he saw it; he’d seen it in the mirror often enough lately.

Whatever had inspired the fit, it didn't last long. With one deep, fortifying breath, the girl straightened her spine and smoothed her expression, nodding her head as she went. “The tear in the veil has not been fully repaired—”

“It was a giant hole!” Gwaine’s outburst interrupted the girl mid sentence, and based on the tension in his shoulders when Arthur turned to face him, he’d clearly wanted to speak for some time. “I just…I think we would have noticed if it was still there.”

The girl turned to face Gwaine as well, and there was an immediate softening of her expression, that cold air about her when she spoke to Arthur melting away. She looked more her age without it, more human. If Arthur had done something personally to offend her, he couldn’t place it. Maybe being Prince of Camelot was offense enough for a creature of magic.

“You closed the doorway letting the Dorocha through, yes, but the veil between life and death is not as solid as you are imagining. Everything dies.” That last she said with a sardonic twist of her lips. If there was a joke there, she didn’t share it. “In this case, magic is dying. Or it’s being pulled across the veil. I suppose they’re the same thing.”

The looks of shock on his men’s faces probably reflected his own. Thinking of magic as an entity capable of dying…He was far, far out of his depth.

“Why would Morgana want to kill magic?” Leon asked. Leon was a difficult man to shock, and Arthur admired his ability to take things in stride. He could use some of that right now.

The girl’s eyes widened. “Morgana is terrified. She didn’t do this.”

“You spoke to her?” Arthur asked, remembering footprints pacing along the shore, just like his own.

“Yes. She came here looking for sanctuary in Avalon. I imagine she is long gone, looking for a place where her power won’t leave her.”

There were many follow up questions to that statement he wanted to ask. _Where did she go? Is she still a threat? Are all sorcerers losing their power?_ But one was more pressing than the others, personally if not practically. He couldn’t imagine a creature of magic refusing to aid Morgana.

“Why did you turn her away?”

“Even if I wanted to grant her sanctuary, and I don’t, it isn’t possible now. The gates of Avalon are sealed.” She looked out towards the forest again, a flicker of regret crossing her face. “I am sorry about the forest. We didn’t know this would happen.”

“I…okay,” Arthur huffed, running a hand through his hair. He had so many _questions_ , he could spend all night listening to what she had to say, but he had no guarantee that she would stay to answer them. Prioritize.

“If it wasn’t Morgana, then who caused this? The Cailleach?”

“The Cailleach’s realm is beyond my sight. I can only speak to the effects on this world, not the causes in hers.”

That was a non-answer if ever he'd heard one, but he didn't press it. He wasn't in a position to press anything.

“You said magic is dying, but I don't understand what that means. Are we in danger?”

“Not personally. You are not a creature of magic, Arthur, there is nothing for you to lose. But the bones of your kingdom are built on magic, you have your father to thank for that. I cannot tell you what the consequences of this will be because this has never happened before, but only a fool would think there won't be any." 

The longer she spoke the more she started to wilt, and though her voice stayed strong she swayed on her feet with exhaustion. They had been speaking for some time, and Arthur felt a rush of guilt at keeping a girl in little more than a shift talking while standing in the water in the cold. He waded in a few feet, ready to grab her and help her to shore.

“Here, you should sit—”

She shied away from him, shaking her head. “I cannot leave the water.” Arthur backed away, though it was difficult when she looked so frail.

“This is affecting you too, isn’t it?” If this could kill a unicorn, why not a fairy girl in a lake?

She nodded.

“If the gates are sealed, why are you…” It was hard to finish that question when he didn’t understand what she meant by gates. Was it some sort of magical doorway, or was there a literal city somewhere underneath the water?

“Out here?” the girl finished, an eyebrow raised in a manner strikingly similar to Gaius. “I am not of the Sidhe, and Avalon is not truly my home, but I am bound to this lake. I’m…” she waved a hand about, “…stuck.”

_You’re dying_ , he wanted to say, but he thought that would cut too close to pity for her comfort. She did not want his condolences.

Instead, he offered her a shallow bow. “Thank you, My Lady, for answering my questions,” he said, but before he could make his goodbyes she held out a hand and pointed directly at Gwaine, motioning him forward. Gwaine hesitated, looking to Arthur for permission in a remarkably ill timed moment of fealty. Surely she wouldn’t demand a life as payment for her knowledge, but he still thought it unwise to risk offending her by ignoring her.

Gwiane came forward, and she moved to stand before him until the water only just lapped at her toes, head tilted backwards to look him in the eye. Gwaine made no attempt at his usual charm, standing there in an awkward, uneasy silence as she assessed him. If anything, he looked somewhat afraid.

Just before Arthur was about to intervene, the tension of the moment stretching nearly to its breaking point, she reached out and caught one of Gwaine’s hands in her own, giving it a gentle squeeze. Gwaine jumped, but didn’t pull away.

“You are a good man, Sir Gwaine. I can see why he liked you.”

“Thank you?” Gwaine said slowly, looking as confused as Arthur felt at that exchange, but the expression on the girl’s face was so achingly sad, wistful in a way that was nearly impossible to watch. It felt too private, a confession meant for her benefit alone.

That was apparently all she wanted to say, her hand falling to her side as she backed away. Giving Arthur one last nod, she turned and made her way deeper into the lake, cutting as smooth as a knife through the water rising around her.

Before he could think better of it, Arthur called out “Wait!”

She stopped.

“ _Have_ we met before?”

Amazingly, she smiled. “We have now,” she said, her voice more gentle than it had been during their entire conversation. “My name is Freya.”

With that, she disappeared.

—

Gaius had gone dramatically pale by the time Arthur finished relaying the girl’s—Freya’s—message. Magic was _dying._ The thought defied comprehension, and he’d spent the return trip home lost in a strange sort of apathy as he struggled to understand the implications.

Now, though, after he’d gone over every piece of information he’d gathered, all he felt was a tentative, rising hope. Magic was dying after all, and it was everything his father had ever wanted. A future in which his people were safe was dangling just out of reach, and all he needed to do to reach it was stand aside and let events unfold as they would.

Gaius didn’t share his enthusiasm.

“How is this possible?” he asked, sinking down onto the bench. His voice was soft with shock, his eyes staring out at nothing.

“Gaius, this explains everything—the trees, the unicorn, all of it.” He thought of the Druids then, fleeing in fear just as the wyverns had, and asked the one question he hadn’t had answered. “Does this mean that magic users are dying as well?”

He didn’t remember that Gaius himself had used magic in his younger days until after he’d already asked, but Gaius had given up magic years ago. Surely he wouldn’t be in any danger.

Slowly, as if pulling himself out of a deep sleep, Gaius shook his head. “No, I…very few people possess magic within themselves. Instead they pull it from the world around them, channel it into the desired form. Being cut off from the source of their power is not lethal.”

That was a relief. For all the evils he’d seen wrought by magic, he’d never delighted in the idea of death on a mass scale, despite how necessary it had seemed to be for peace. Gaius’s past would remain safely where it should. He would never discover Morgana’s body abandoned in the wilds, far from the people who had loved her. If the only lives to be lost were those of the magical creatures that had plagued them for years, it was cause for celebration.

They could win this war without shedding a drop of blood.

Gaius’s hand landing on his own brought him back to the moment. He looked uncommonly serious, the lines around his mouth sunk deep with his frown.

“Arthur, listen to me. Magic runs through everything, the ground that grows our crops, the wells that give us water. The fact that we are not in any direct danger does not mean we are safe. This could change, _destroy_ everything. You must find a way to stop this.”

“We can adapt to any changes. The people are resilient, and we are already rebuilding. What better time for change?” Couldn't Gaius see the possibilities?

“Sire, I am begging you…”

“You are asking me to save the very thing that killed him!”

Gaius recoiled, and the silence that fell over them was as thick and cloying as smoke. He wasn't the only one surprised by Arthur's outburst, his anger as sudden as it was overpowering.

He thought of the Druids, a supposedly peaceful people that would kidnap his sister in the dead of night, a corruption she’d never recovered from. He thought of Valiant and the snakes rearing up from his shield, driven by greed to cheat using magic. He thought of Anhora and his unicorns, driving the entire kingdom to its knees because Arthur alone had failed his tests, and he thought of the High Priestesses in Morgana’s books, so convinced they were doing good even as they led their own people to the slaughter.

Without magic, there would never be another Mordred, a young boy facing the pyre because of the mistakes of his parents. There would never be another Aredian, a false witchfinder taking advantage of the people’s fear. There would never be another Merlin, an innocent man sacrificed to forces that should never have been tampered with.

For that, no price could be too high.

Gaius said nothing when he turned and fled.

With nowhere else to go, he retreated to his chambers. More than anything he wished there were a place marking Merlin’s passing, a cairn, a plaque, even a field where his ashes had been scattered would have been enough, but there was nothing. It was as if he’d never existed at all.

The taste of salt on his lips made him realize he was crying, and he brought a hand to his face half in confusion, half in wonder. In all this time, through the funeral, through the nightmares that still stalked his dreams, through all the days of pain and fear and uncertainty that had followed, not once had he cried.

“I am so sorry, Merlin,” he said into the empty air, the tears flowing now as if a dam had been breached. “I am so sorry I couldn’t save you. But I promise, I swear on my life that this will never happen to anyone else, ever again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm alive y'all! Kind of a short one, but now we've got some answers. Thank you so much to everyone for your lovely comments, they really kept me going when I was feeling kind of burned out on this, and reading them always makes my day.
> 
> Freya really got the short end of the stick in the show. I don't think she hates Arthur considering she hated being a rampaging beast too, but I also think it would be kind of hard to be polite to the guy that stabbed you to death. 
> 
> I was reading over the previous chapter where Arthur reads Morgana's books talking about the sacrifice, and I don't think it came out like I'd intended. It felt like Arthur read that things weren't as he'd been taught, and was like 'oh well that's fine then.' I wanted it to be more like Arthur realizing that there is a vast, complex world that's been kept from him and that he doesn't understand and can't trust what he thinks of as the truth anymore. I didn't want it to seem like he's suddenly okay with magic because actually the High Priestesses were good, and this chapter was me trying to bridge the gap I left for myself with that. Anyway, I'm only putting this here because I won't go back and edit previous chapters because then this thing would really never be finished, but I hope that might make Arthur's thought process a little clearer.


	9. Chapter 9

It took every drop of willpower Lancelot had to wait to speak to Gaius until after Arthur had left, sitting in an alcove down the corridor as the minutes trickled by. If Arthur was telling Gaius everything, they would likely be a while.

He hardly noticed Gwaine wandering by until he sat next to him, uncommonly silent. He kept rubbing his palms along the fabric of his trousers, nervous.

“Am I the only one who thinks she could have offed us all, and it wouldn’t have been very hard?” he finally burst out, his nerves moving from his hands to his bouncing heel. Lancelot was finding it somewhat difficult to focus on him.

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” he said. Gwaine didn’t pay him any mind, rubbing his hands back and forth along his scalp.

“I just…she talked like she _knew_ me, but I swear I’ve never seen her before.”

It would have been easy to deflect, to make a quip about all the pretty women Gwaine had left behind in a drunken stupor, but he was wearing his disquiet so plainly on his face that Lancelot found he couldn’t.

That didn’t mean he could tell him the truth, or at least what he suspected the truth to be. Merlin had known dragons after all; a fairy girl in a lake was not more unbelievable than that.

“She let us all go, Gwaine. I’m sure you’re safe here.”

The fact that Gwaine did not protest his fear made it all the clearer.

“I—yeah, you’re right, I know you’re right, it’s just…”

He never finished the thought, a single large breath gusting out of him. He turned to face Lancelot.

“You waiting for Gaius?” he asked. Lancelot let him change the subject.

“Trouble sleeping,” he said. It wasn’t a lie.

“Yeah,” Gwaine said, “me too.”

—

He had nearly drifted off by the time Arthur finally emerged, throwing the door open so forcefully it slammed against the wall. He didn’t even notice Lancelot sitting there as he stormed past.

Uncertain of what state he would find Gaius in, Lancelot crept slowly into the room, preparing himself for anything. He found Gaius sitting pale and silent, staring off at nothing. If he had to guess, he would say it was shock.

“Gaius?”

Belying the diagnosis he made a moment ago, Gaius focused on him in an instant.

“Is what Arthur says true?”

“I imagine so,” Lancelot says, taking a seat opposite Gaius. “The girl in the lake told us magic was being pulled across the veil.”

The intensity in Gaius’s gaze was starting to become unnerving. “Tell me her _exact_ wording. Arthur believes magic to be dying.”

“She said both. She said they were the same thing.”

Gaius steepled his hands over his lips, seemingly content to ponder on his own, but Lancelot couldn’t hold his tongue.

“This has to do with Merlin, doesn’t it? The timing is too perfect.”

Gaius rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Merlin is incredibly powerful, but he was never the _source_ of magic in the world. It existed long before he was born and it should continue to exist now.”

“But it’s not.”

Gaius nodded. “But it’s not,” he repeated.

Lancelot had never given much though to the afterlife, too concerned about the things he wanted to accomplish in this life to dwell on it, but now he found himself wondering. If ever there was a man who deserved entrance into Heaven, it was Merlin. Was he up there now, sitting among the clouds pulling his magic to him, or had the Cailleach denied him that? Was he even aware of the effect he was having? Was he aware of anything at all?

This was all so far beyond Lancelot’s understanding.

“Sir Lancelot, I require a favor of you,” Gaius said, breaking the silence they’d fallen into.

“Of course.”

“I need a cart that can take me from the city for a night.”

A part of Lancelot wanted to ask him what it was for, but the larger part of him was so tired of the burden of _knowing._ He only nodded.

“And Lancelot,” Gaius said, reaching a hand across the table as he leaned forward, “Arthur must not know of it.”

—

Securing a cart in secrecy turned out to be more difficult than he imagined. They were rather conspicuous on their own, and few merchants were willing to rent theirs out for an unknown purpose, especially in the wake of the wood shortage.

He had just returned from another failed negotiation attempt when he saw Gwen leaning against the wall opposite his chambers, waiting. She straightened when she saw him.

“Lancelot,” she greeted, and a pang went through him at the sound of her voice, more subdued than normal. The first he’d heard since he’d left for the Isle of the Blessed.

“Guinevere,” he said, “did you need something?”

“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, and a flare of panic sparked inside of him at the thought that she might have seen him wandering about. That she might have questions he didn’t know how to answer. He didn’t know if he had it in him to lie to her. Thankfully, she hurried on before his panic could grow. “Not that I’ve been _following_ you, I just, I haven’t seen you and…” she trailed off, taking one deep breath to calm herself, and finished, “I wanted to apologize.”

“You have nothing to apologize for,” he said, and believed it, without even knowing what she was talking about.

“Yes I do,” she said, stepping forward into his space and grasping his hand. Hers was warm and dry, the calluses on her palm from when they’d first met starting to fade. “I should never have asked what I did of you. I didn’t know what you’d face on the Isle of the Blessed, but it still wasn’t fair of me.”

“I will always try and protect him. You don’t have to ask,” he said, never mind that he’d utterly failed.

“I know that,” she said. It was surreal, standing here hand in hand having a conversation with her. It was even more surreal when she moved forward and wrapped her arms around him. It should have been awkward, but his hands found her waist as naturally as if he’d been holding her for years.

“You aren’t expendable Lancelot,” she said into his shoulder. “Please, I don't want to lose you too.”

She didn’t seem to expect a response to that. Her eyes were damp when she pulled back, giving him one last watery smile before she walked away, leaving him standing there in tatters.

Arthur might still be alive, but he’d still failed her more completely than she knew.

—

After over a week of searching, Lancelot did manage to arrange for a cart to be left just outside the city by sundown. Gaius took in that news almost greedily, a manic intensity lighting him from within. It was somewhat frightening, seeing him like that.

But Lancelot had promised to do this for him. Even though he still did not know where they were headed, he helped Gaius into the cart and took up the reins himself.

Gaius guided him south, the lamp light of Camelot’s watchtowers turning faint, then disappearing entirely. The forest was unnaturally still when they entered, no rustling underbrush or humming of night insects greeting them. Even the squeaking of the cart wheels and stamping of the horse’s hooves was strangely muted. Gaius didn’t seem worried, so Lancelot did his best to pay it no mind.

A lake appeared suddenly between the trees, apparently the destination Gaius had been guiding him to. It wasn’t Avalon, smaller by half and in the opposite direction, but something about it’s pitch black surface under the light of a half moon and still water in a gentle breeze gave it a mystical air regardless. Gaius dismounted and walked to the shore, tiny waves soaking the hem of his robes. Lancelot followed, the splash of his boots doing nothing to disturb the rest of the lake. It looked like glass reflecting a starless sky.

Gaius pulled something out of a pocket and cradled it in his palms, too small for Lancelot to make out in the dim light.

“What’s that?” he asked, voice hushed in deference to this eerie place.

“An old trinket I’ve held onto for far too long,” Gaius said, before tossing it into the water.

The water rippled, one single wave spreading out farther than Lancelot could see before descending once again into stillness.

Silence.

Anxiety crawled along Lancelot’s shoulders the longer they waited, while Gaius seemed to deflate as the minutes crawled on. They stayed in that spot until the moon had moved a full hand’s-width further into the sky, when, without a word, Gaius headed back to the cart and sank down on its edge, his head in his hands.

Lancelot followed cautiously, expecting him to be crying, but when he sat down he saw that he was only breathing, slow and steady in a way that could only be deliberate.

“What was supposed to happen?”

Gaius let his hands fall with a sigh, his eyes dry but his face tight with tension. “It was supposed to bring him back,” he said softly, before letting out a bitter laugh. “How arrogant of me, to think I could do it.”

“Bring him… _Merlin?”_ Lancelot asked, incredulous. Gaius nodded.

A spark of anger ignited inside him at what he’d nearly been party to. Raising the dead did not sound like magic, it sounded like devilry.

" _That_ was your plan?" he nigh on shouted. They didn't even know for certain that Merlin's death was the cause of all this. He never imagined Gaius would take things so far, on little more than a desperate guess. “Would that have even worked? Would he still be Merlin, or…?” Would he have been nothing more than a walking corpse, or a body that looked like Merlin but lacked all of his heart? Even picturing such a creature made feel ill.

Gaius seemed to shrink under the weight of his questions. “I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking terribly far ahead.” Clearly. Lancelot had no idea how they would have explained such a thing to Arthur.

But seeing him sitting there, looking old and tired and sad, Lancelot couldn't maintain his anger. All that came in its place was pity. He was only a grieving old man, after all, a guardian given a chance to bring back his charge.

If Lancelot were given the same opportunity for his family, he didn’t know that he’d be able to refuse.

But it hadn’t worked, and they were no closer to solving this problem than they’d been at the beginning of the night.

“What do we do now?” Lancelot asked.

“I don’t know,” Gaius said.

In all his time in Camelot, he’d never seen Gaius look so despondent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hot minute y'all, sorry! I know this one is pretty short, but I wanted to just get something out and keep the story moving. I hope it doesn't read as too rushed because of that.


	10. Chapter 10

First snowfall came only three days after the last of the pyres had finally finished burning. Gwen stood on the battlements, watching the delicate flakes fall free of ash for the first time in weeks. She could see rainbows where they glinted on her eyelashes.

A bittersweet celebration was going on in the lower town, the cooled fires representing an official end to their mourning, if not in practice. Gwen was happy enough not to participate.

She had no one to celebrate with.

After whatever had happened on the Knights’ latest trip (which again, no one had bothered to tell her about), Arthur had tucked himself away from everyone, emerging only as much as was necessary to manage the kingdom as it prepared for winter.

Gaius was as poorly as she’d ever seen him. He tired easily, and slept for much of the day. Considering how quickly this had come on, she suspected it wasn’t his body that was failing him, but his heart.

She’d thought things might be easier after her confession to Lancelot, a weight finally lifted from her shoulders, but he was more distant than he’d ever been, quiet and forlorn. She didn’t know if she had the courage to approach him again.

No one else had known Merlin like she had, loved him like she had. It wouldn’t have felt right, going to anyone else for comfort, so she descended from the battlements and returned home alone.

—

Nights grew ever longer and colder, an unusual amount of snow pressing down on the city until she thought they might all suffocate under the weight. The refugees were overcrowded, close quarters turning to frayed tempers. Many of the men had come to blows already. The servants roamed the corridors with their shoulders hitched high, wary and defensive against an enemy no one could combat.

It was exhausting.

The only bright spot in such a bleak winter was that the fires in the castle had been lit again. Sparingly, yes—wood was still scarce—but it was a relief to be able to breathe for a moment with her back pressed against heated stone, letting the warmth seep into her bones.

It was a disappointment then, after a particularly long day, to discover that her favorite alcove was already occupied. Gwaine was standing directly underneath a sconce, his bare hands pressed flat against the wall. He saw her only seconds after she saw him, his eyes going wide with panic.

“Aw, hell.”

He probably hadn’t meant for her to hear that.

Rubbing a hand along his neck, he stepped back from the wall. “Here, I can…I’ve hogged it long enough.”

“No, that’s alright, you were here first,” she said, wishing she hadn’t and then feeling guilty for wishing it. Even if she did want to be alone, that was no reason to be rude.

Shuffling awkwardly to the side, he made room for her to squeeze in alongside him, avoiding eye contact all the while. If it weren’t so cold, it wouldn’t have been worth it.

“Look,” he finally said, angling his body slightly toward hers, gaze somewhere out in the distance, “I know I’m probably not your favorite person right now, but I am sorry. Sorry you had to see me like that. It…wasn’t my finest moment.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she agreed lightly, clasping her hands in front of her thighs. She wasn’t quite ready to forgive him yet.

He sighed, running his hand through his hair. She wondered if he knew how many nervous gestures he had.

“I just…I don’t want you to think you have to be afraid of me. You don’t, I swear it.”

She blinked, thrown. The idea that _she_ might be afraid of Gwaine hadn’t even occurred to her. She knew frightening men; he wasn’t one of them, no matter how much he tried to play the part.

“I don’t think it’s me you should worry about.”

“Yeah, well, Arthur’s a glutton for punishment on the best of days. Can’t even bring himself to be angry with me, so…” he waved a hand about, as if this whole conversation was him hoping that she’d offer absolution on Arthur’s behalf.

This was a part of why they never spoke. He was big and loud and drunk and always, always so focused on all the wrong things. Of course Arthur wasn’t angry. Why did that matter? This wasn’t really about Arthur at all.

“Arthur always accepts what he thinks he deserves. He should be able to trust that his knights have his best interests at heart, don’t you think?”

There it was, the flicker of shame on his face she’d been aiming for. Seeing it wasn’t nearly as satisfying as she thought it would be, and the last of the petty meanness drained out of her.

“I’m sorry,” she said, glancing down at her feet, “that was uncalled for.”

Gwaine raised a brow. “Why? It’s true. A knight that can’t keep his oaths isn’t worth shit. Granted, I don’t think knights are worth much in general, but…”

“Then why do you stay?” she asked, leaning more fully into the wall.

“He’d have wanted me to.”

 _Merlin._ Of course he would have wanted Gwaine to stay. He loved Gwaine, loved spending time with him. She could still remember the pride on his face at the knighting ceremony, remember his laughter at the celebration. She hadn’t understood it at the time, still didn’t, if she was being honest, but Merlin had looked at this man and seen someone he could call a friend.

“Did you really think Arthur could have killed him?” she asked, voice soft.

“At the time? Yeah,” he said, not a trace of dishonesty on his face. “I’ve had some time to calm down, now.”

She wanted to be angry at that, wanted to demand how he could possibly have believed that, but she’d managed to convince herself that Merlin was still alive, hadn’t she? She was no stranger to the things grief could make you think, make you do.

He pushed himself off from the wall, straightened out his shirt. “I should get going. Enjoy the warmth,” he said, before striding out of the alcove and back down the hall. She wondered if her questions had finally driven him off.

It struck her then that that was the first real conversation she’d ever had with Gwaine. He was still strange and vaguely irritating, but he was—had been _—_ important to Merlin. Perhaps she shouldn’t dismiss him so quickly.

—

As the days grew shorter and shorter, lethargy fell over the city as those who could stayed in bed later into the day.

Gwen really wished she was one of the ones who could.

She’d been working for several hours before the first rays of dawn started shining through the window, bathing the castle in pinks and golds. It was beautiful, normally her favorite part of day, but her exhaustion made it difficult to appreciate it.

A sharp scream cut through the morning’s stillness. The wooden crate she held cracked where it crashed to the floor, just barely missing her toes. She hardly noticed.

Heart pounding in her chest, she was frozen to the spot, torn between two equally strong desires: to run toward the sound and help, and to flee. Screams these days meant nothing more than death and fear and heartache. She didn’t know if she was strong enough to handle more of that.

Mirna ran out to her before she could make up her mind.

“Gwen!” she gasped, collapsing against Gwen’s shoulder. Her nails dug through the fabric of Gwen’s dress. “Gwen, there’s something in there. Oh, I almost _touched_ it.” Her lips were curled in disgust.

Having someone real and solid clinging to her, someone she cared for, helped pull her out of her stupor. Mirna was her friend. She could never abandon her when she was afraid.

“Calm down,” she said, voice not as faint as she feared it might be. She grabbed hold of Mirna’s shoulders and spun her around until they were face to face, smoothing her hair down like she would for a child. “What did you see?”

“I don’t know,” Mirna said, clearly working at controlling herself. “It was about…” she held her hands up, palms about five inches apart. Gwen assumed she was talking about size. “I think it was dead.”

“Are you sure it wasn’t a rat?” The size was about right, and even Gwen could admit to screaming before when a rat had taken her off guard.

But Mirna shook her head, vehement. “No, Gwen, it looked like…like a little person.”

Gwen believed her. “Alright, I’ll take a look.”

Mirna stayed close behind her as they walked into the room she’d just come from, her hands still grasping the fabric of Gwen’s dress.

“It’s over there,” Mirna said, pointing to the far corner of the room, close to the fireplace. Gwen led them forward.

It definitely wasn’t a rat.

Mirna was right, it looked like a human in miniature, barely longer than the length of Gwen’s hand. Its skin was dark brown, but not in the way Elyan’s or her father’s was. There was an earthiness to it, a greenish undertone. Something inhuman. Its fingers and toes were long, its body thin and belly rounded, but most noticeable were its ears, jutting out behind its skull and ending at a delicate point.

It looked dead.

Just to be certain, Gwen grabbed a poker from the stand next to the fireplace, keeping her footsteps light just in case it leapt up suddenly. She poked at it as gently as she could, flipping it from its back onto its stomach. Its limbs hit the ground with a dull thud.

“What is it?” Mirna whispered, face half hidden behind her hands.

“I don’t know,” Gwen said. “Here, hand me a rag.”

Mirna pulled one from the pockets of her apron, and Gwen wrapped it around the little…thing. Nausea rose where she could feel its flesh against her fingertips, even with the cloth separating them, but she forced it down and picked it up, cradling it by her stomach.

“Come on, Gaius should see this.”

It felt like they were sneaking through the corridors, like any moment someone was going to stop them and demand to see what she was carrying, but no one so much as looked twice at them. Nothing but serving girls on a delivery run.

It was a relief when the stairs to Gaius’s tower came into view.

Cradling the creature in one hand, she pushed the door open with the other.

“Gaius, I—”

Lancelot was in the room, sitting at the table with Gaius. They’d both straightened up when she entered, a private conversation cut short.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

Lancelot stood up. “Not at all, I was just about to leave.” He nodded at Gaius, the look in his eyes communicating something more than a simple goodbye, before striding past her and out the door. The smile he gave her as he went was strained.

But she didn’t have time to wonder about Lancelot. Moving forward, she set her bundle on the table Gaius had just stood up from as well. Getting it out of her hands was a relief.

“Mirna found this in one of the servants rooms this morning,” she said, Mirna bobbing her head behind her. “We don’t know what it is.”

Raising his spectacles to his face, Gaius unwrapped the rag. His eyebrows flew toward his hairline as he did. 

“Incredible,” he said, leaning down for a closer look. He pointed to one of his shelves. “Hand me that book, would you my dear? The one with the purple spine, third shelf from the bottom.”

He flipped through the pages quickly, clearly knowing what he was looking for, before stopping on a page with a detailed drawing of the same creature on the table.

“In all my life, I never believed I would see a brownie.”

A _brownie._ A little cleaning elf. The figures in the children’s stories her father would tell her before bed. A legend. A myth.

One was lying on the table right in front of her.

“In truth,” Gaius continued, “I’m surprised any chose to remain in Camelot at all. I can’t imagine they’ve received many offerings.”

 _Did you remember to leave a bowl of cream out? We don’t want the brownies leaving us._ How strange to think that her childhood offerings had actually gone somewhere. She’d thought her father poured them out every morning.

“I thought brownies were invisible,” Mirna said, making her way out from behind Gwen. She seemed more confident now that Gaius was here to lay her fears to rest.

Gaius turned to her. “They can be, if they choose to be. Most never reveal themselves to humans.”

“What do you think happened to this one?” Gwen asked. If brownies were prone to dying out in the open, she imagined she’d have seen one before now.

“I don’t know. I’d need some time to look into it.”

“You don’t think they’re dangerous?”

“Not at all,” Gaius said, seemingly surprised by the question. “Brownies are harmless. If they don’t like you, they’ll simply leave.”

“What if this has something to do with everything that’s been going on?”

“If it does, there is very little to be done about it. I wouldn’t worry too much, Gwen.”

He said it with a pat to her shoulder, but his eyes were still sunken and tired. As he ushered them out of his chambers, she wasn’t sure if she believed him.

—

Three more brownies turned up within a week and a half, the rumor mills alight with the news. Arthur, however, remained tight lipped on the subject.

In fact, Gwen hadn’t heard a single piece of official news in weeks. Arthur seemed to be tight lipped on everything right now.

Word had spread that she had found the first one, and others came to her asking for what she knew.

“Gaius says its nothing to worry about,” she would say, without fail. She didn’t blame them for looking skeptical at that. Even she didn’t believe herself.

The people were frightened. More magic on the back of such a tragedy and not a word from their prince. She was tired of dozens of people coming up to her each day, asking her to lay their fears to rest even as all they wanted was for her to confirm them.

She was frightened too.

She’d gone to fetch water from the well as a brief distraction, a chance to escape the suffocating pressure of the castle, when she felt the hem of her dress grow heavy. The entire city was covered in slush by now, but looking down she saw that she was wading through nearly an inch of water, cutting through what was left of the snow and melting it as it went.

A crowd had gathered around the well, their murmurings rising in volume the closer she got. Apologizing as she went, she pushed her way to the front.

Water was flowing _out_ of the well.

With a faint burbling sound it poured out on all sides, splashing onto the stone and spreading out in every direction, before coalescing into streams that fanned out towards the town. The flow was steady, not so much as a bubble disturbing the surface. Smooth as glass.

Gwen stared at it in disbelief, but thought a bit distantly that this was better than the well running dry, at least.

The crowd had grown bigger by the minute, and it wasn’t surprising when a handful of knights came up to disperse them, those at the back crying out about how they hadn’t even gotten to look yet.

Gwen would have been happy to be herded away with the rest of the townsfolk if one of the knights doing the herding hadn’t been Lancelot. She caught sight of him not fifteen feet away, halfheartedly ushering people away from the well but mostly just staring at it. Rather than shock or fear or even consideration, the look on his face seemed like resignation.

Gwen pushed back against the flow of the crowd, making her way toward him.

“Lancelot!” she called, only a scant few feet away. She reached a hand out to catch his arm, but just before her fingertips brushed his mail he turned away, striding back towards the castle.

It was as if he hadn’t noticed her at all.

—

Five days later and the well was still flowing.

Every once in a while a pillar of water would shoot into the sky without warning, the only signs that it had happened being the surprised shouts of those in the courtyard and the dull slap of so much water landing on cobblestone.

Sometimes, late in the evenings, Gwen would catch Lancelot staring at it, a furrow in his brow.

It hadn’t taken long for her to figure out that something was weighing on him. After his abrupt departure three days ago, (and after she’d been able to set aside her hurt, figuring this had to do with far more than just her), she’d started…well, she wouldn’t say _following._ She was keeping an eye out for him, was all.

He’d separated himself from the other knights, running errands on his own throughout town more often than not. In the five days that she’d been watching, he’d left the citadel three times. She wondered how she could have possibly missed how often he was gone, but then the castle was crowded and disorganized. This was probably the best time for him to slip out on his own.

Most of all, she noticed just how much time he spent with Gaius. If he was in the castle at all, odds were he was in Gaius’s tower. She’d spent an evening tucked into an alcove at the base of the stairs, waiting to see how long it would be before he left. She fell asleep long before he had, startling awake at the sound of the door closing. When Lancelot strode by, looking tired and worn thin, he hadn’t even glanced in her direction.

Despite knowing that he wasn’t ignoring her to be cruel, she couldn’t help the flash of pain lancing through her chest at every unnoticed smile, every aborted wave, every conversation stopped before it could start. A part of her felt that she might even deserve it, that it had been selfish of her to expect to keep him as a friend after so clearly choosing Arthur. She’d made the choice without knowing what it would mean for all three of them, without knowing how to reconcile what she still felt for Lancelot, but it was far too late to take it back. She wasn’t sure she would if she could.

Even if she no longer mattered to him, he still mattered to her. She wouldn’t leave him to his troubles if there was something she could do to help.

If only she could get him to _talk_ to her.

That was how she found herself skulking through the lower town in the middle of the night, keeping to the shadows as she followed him to the gates. That had been the plan, at least. Lancelot had turned a corner that branched off into three distinct paths, and she’d lost him from there.

She finally admitted that to herself in a cramped alleyway, leaning against the wall with a frustrated sigh. She’d try again another day.

Night in the city was never silent. She could hear the rustling of people in their beds, the billowing of torch flames in the breeze, the creaking of old wood, and the snuffling of animals in their pens. All the sounds of a normal night, but alone in the dark they took on a sharp, threatening edge, magnifying the silence surrounding them. Unease crept up her spine. 

She pushed herself off the wall and started moving, her footsteps seeming much louder than they had only moments ago. Surely every house she passed knew she was out here, surely someone would come to confront her any second. She sped up.

Rounding a corner, she crashed right into someone coming the other way, a hand reaching out and grasping her arm as she started to tumble backwards, steadying her. It took every ounce of self control she had not to scream in surprise.

“Gwen?”

She almost didn’t hear her name over the pounding of her own heart, but as she squinted in the gloom she could make out the familiar features of Gwaine, shrouded in darkness as they were. He released her arm.

He looked almost pleased to see her. “Were you following Lancelot?” he asked, and a rush of mortified embarrassment ran through her. She wrapped her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

“ _No,_ ” she said, except that was a lie and she’d never been able to lie well. It was too forceful, he’d see right through it, and she could just imagine the things he must be thinking right now—

“Damn, I was. Was hoping you’d be able to tell me where he went.”

Gwen blinked. “Wait, why were you…?”

“Because he’s up to something and I want to know what it is. That and Percy’s worried about him, but he couldn’t be sneaky if he tried.”

It was on the tip of Gwen’s tongue to say _neither could you_ , except she hadn’t heard so much as a rustle of clothing to let her know Gwaine was there. Instead, she only said, “You noticed too, then?”

Gwaine’s eyes narrowed. “So you were following him.”

“Keep your voice down,” she hissed, half expecting Lancelot to appear at any second. “I—alright, come with me.” She grabbed Gwaine’s hand and led him back through town, unwilling to have this conversation out in the open.

She’d followed Lancelot farther than she’d realized. It took them nearly ten minutes to make it back to her home. She ushered him inside and grabbed her flint, lighting a fire in the grate. Sitting with him in the dim light felt uncomfortably intimate, secretive. She wasn’t even sure what she wanted to say.

“Yes, I was following him,” she confessed. “I just thought I could help if I knew more about what was wrong.”

“Besides the many things that are obviously wrong, you mean?” He’d snatched up a knife she’d left on her table and was idly flipping it in his hand. “Because the way I see it, we’ve got magical creatures dying left and right, a well that’s decided its water belongs in the sky, and a Princess whose decided to lock himself in his tower. Lancelot’s the only one who seems to be doing anything, so…” he trailed off, shrugging his shoulders as he tossed the knife back onto the table.

“Have you found anything out?” Gwen asked.

A heavy sigh gusted from him. “Haven’t gotten that far yet. You?”

Gwen shook her head. “I know he spends most of his time with Gaius, but that’s all.”

Gwaine perked up. “Really? That’s interesting.”

They drifted into silence, and after a few minutes it was almost comfortable. She hadn’t known Gwaine could do comfortable silences.

It was Gwaine who broke it. “If you’re up for it, I think I have an idea.”

That should have made her wary—it _did_ make her wary—but she really was worried about Lancelot and she really did want to help. Tailing him in the night hadn’t gotten her anywhere.

Against her better judgment, she nodded her head.

—

“We can’t _spy on Gaius!_ ”

The next day, Gwaine had led her to the balcony in Gaius’s rooms while the man himself was out on errands. They wouldn’t have long, he never spent much time away from his chambers now, but even knowing he could walk in at any moment she couldn’t bring herself to crouch in the tiny alcove hidden by a large stack of books.

Gwaine was already back there.

“Do you want to know what’s going on or not?”

Yes, she did, but that didn’t make breaking into someone’s chambers any more acceptable. She was about to tell him so, except the door below her creaked open and she was on her stomach before she was even conscious of reacting, feeling an awful lot like a spy.

Gwaine looked infuriatingly smug when she crawled into the alcove beside him.

Gaius was alone, mixing medicines at his workstation. There was nothing to do but listen to the faint tinkling of glass bottles and watch the shadows move along the ceiling as the day progressed, her back and legs cramping as the hours wore on. Gwaine fell asleep after the first hour or so, and she sent out a silent prayer that he didn’t snore. The humiliation of having to admit what they’d been up to was the only thing that kept her from getting up and walking out.

The door creaking open late into the evening set her heart to pounding, the most exciting thing to happen all day. Gwaine transitioned from asleep to alert with only a few confused blinks.

“Anything?” Gaius asked, his voice nearly drowned out by the sound of the door being bolted.

“No.” That was Lancelot’s voice, and suddenly this entire, awful day seemed worth it.

Shuffling papers. The creaking of the bench. And then—

“I found a griffin and two kelpies today, here.”

“The ridgeline again?” Gaius asked. “That makes five this week.”

Silence for a time, and then Lancelot said, “I still don’t see a pattern.”

“We may have to concede that there is no pattern. Perhaps the sickness does not have an origin point.”

Gwen risked scooting forward just enough to peek over the edge of the balcony. Gaius and Lancelot were seated opposite each other at the table, a large map marked with dozens of pins spread out between them. Lancelot had his hands steepled in front of his face, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

“And what would that tell us?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You gentlemen need any help?” Gwaine called out. Gwen let out a squeak when both Gaius and Lancelot turned in alarm, Lancelot rising with the palm of his hand on his sword. She snatched her head back, shooting Gwaine an incredulous look that he didn’t see because he was already standing, moving to lean over the railing on the balcony.

“Gwaine,” Lancelot said, exasperated. “How long have you been there?”

“Long enough to know you’re in over your head, whatever it is you’re doing.”

“And who else is up there with you,” Gaius said, disapproving. Gwen felt herself flush.

She stood up, shoulders hunched in embarrassment when she saw the surprise on both Gaius and Lancelot’s face. “Sorry Gaius,” she said, “we only wanted to help.”

“So what’s this about kelpies and griffins, then?” Gwaine asked, striding down the stairs as if he hadn’t just admitted to any wrongdoing. Gaius and Lancelot shared a long, weighty look.

“Sir Gwaine,” Gaius began, folding his hands behind his back. Gwen recognized that stance. It was the one he used when he had to deliver bad news. “Lancelot and I have the matter quite under control. If you would—” he swept a hand out towards the door.

Gaius’s requests were really only politely worded orders, and he had the authority and the age to back them up. Not even Uther denied him often, but Gwaine turned away from Gaius as if his words were nothing more than chatter on the wind. Instead, he focused on Lancelot.

“Lance, please _,_ ” he begged, and she had never heard such desperation for him, “I was _useless_. I just…” he trailed off, arms waving in frustration as he searched for the words, but Lancelot’s face had softened from the moment he said ‘please.’ He’d already won.

Lancelot turned to Gaius. “We could use the help. And we don’t…” he never finished the thought, and that hurt a bit, that they were still holding something back, but Gaius seemed to understand. He sighed.

“And you, Gwen?” he asked, glancing once again up toward the balcony. “Do you wish to help?”

She had jumped a bit at being addressed directly, having felt mostly forgotten for the entire conversation, but the answer was an easy one. “Yes.”

“Very well.” Gaius waved them both towards the table. She nearly tripped in her haste down the stairs.

The pins on the map were colored with bits of string, most of them concentrated around the castle, but the farthest was nearly at the southern tip of Balor. They meant nothing to her, but Gaius and Lancelot clearly had a system.

“We’ve been tracking magical occurrences around the kingdom. I’m certain you’ve noticed those from within the castle, but there are many more, seemingly without cause. We have been attempting to understand that cause.”

That would be Lancelot’s trips out of the kingdom, then.

“No luck, I take it?” Gwaine asked, leaning forward as he studied the map. His brows climbed higher the longer he looked. “What’s this one way down here?”

Lancelot answered, “I found a unicorn in Balor when I was scouting.”

Gwaine whistled. “Are all the red pins unicorns?”

“Magical creatures. The griffin and kelpies you heard me mention were added here.” Lancelot pointed to a spot just south of the castle, a cluster of red pins under his fingertip.

“What are the blue ones?” Gwen asked.

“Unexplained events. The well in the courtyard is an example. Green ones are magical attacks—”

“Attacks?”

Gaius nodded. “A chimaera destroyed a small village here—” he pointed to a pin by the border with Brecchia, “and a flood wiped out another here—” west of Gallowdale. “Survivors say the water glowed from within.”

Gwen shook her head, their words like pieces of a puzzle that wouldn’t quite fit, jagged and wrong. “I don't understand, why aren’t we doing anything about these?”

“I’m afraid we can’t,” Gaius said, gently. “We don’t have the men or the supplies to send out a party in the dead of winter, and we have yet to discover a pattern to the attacks.”

In other words, they had no way of predicting where the next attack would be.

“You’re telling me that we’ve lost even more villages?” Gwaine asked. “What’s Arthur say about all this?”

Neither Gaius nor Lancelot seemed to want to answer that.

“Please tell me Arthur has something to say about all this.” Gwaine sounded a bit faint.

“You heard what Freya said, Gwaine. Arthur believes this will run its course.”

“Who is Freya?” Gwen asked, interrupting Gwaine before he could say what he thought of that. Based on his expression, it was nothing complementary.

“A fairy in the Lake of Avalon,” Lancelot answered. “She told us that magic is dying, which is what’s causing—” he waved a hand over the map, “—all this.”

“Maybe I should have punched him harder,” Gwaine muttered, but before Gwen could take offense to that he continued, “So we’re all in agreement that that’s the dumbest idea ever, right? What’s the plan?”

“No, we’re not all in agreement,” Gwen said, feeling like she was falling further and further behind with every word spoken. “If magic will be gone…isn’t this what we want?"

Tears had come unbidden to her eyes when she posed the question. She hadn’t realized until just then how much that was what _she_ wanted. Magic might as well have been synonymous with grief.

Lancelot wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she felt set adrift without an anchor as she looked between the three of them, enemy pieces in a chess game she wasn’t even aware she was playing.

Gaius shuffled to her side and placed a hand on her shoulder. “It isn’t that simple Gwen. We aren’t speaking only of beasts and evil sorcerers, but the magic that sustains the very Earth. I know that magic has not been kind to you, but we depend on it all the same.”

Silence reigned for a time, all of them waiting patiently on her, even Gwaine. She wanted to understand, and she only felt more confused than ever. She didn’t know how her life depended on magic, would have had nothing to do with it if she had the choice, but Gaius had the sort of wisdom she’d always hoped to possess one day. She’d never been given a reason not to trust him before.

Sorting out her complicated emotions about magic, all the grief and fear and anger swirling around memories of her father, Morgana, Merlin, even Arthur, wouldn’t happen here, and it wouldn’t happen with an audience. But for now, she could lean on that trust.

“I…alright. What do you need us to do?”

It was impossible not to notice how quickly Lancelot relaxed at that. The smile he turned her way was the first real one she’d seen from him in weeks. It fortified her. She trusted him too.

Gaius turned back to the map. “For now, all we can do is take note of anything strange. Having extra pairs of eyes will help with that.”

“There’s got to be something more we can do,” Gwaine said, which didn’t surprise her. Wait-and-see didn’t seem to be his style.

“There is,” Lancelot said. “You can help me find the druids.”

—

The winds on top of the battlements were icy and fierce, frost clinging to the standards still hoisted high. Gwen sat with her back to the low wall as a wind break, her breath steaming before her.

She wished she could say she was surprised when Gwaine showed up beside her, sinking down until he too sat with his back to the wall. She had a feeling they’d be seeing a lot of each other in the coming weeks. The thought didn’t bother her as much as it would have not too long ago.

“I ever tell you about the time I met a witch in Gawant?”

Gwen stayed silent. They both knew he hadn’t.

“I had taken work on a fishing boat down there, and there was a storm. The boat capsized, and I woke up barely breathing on the shore somewhere far from where I’d started. She took me in, nursed me back to health. I never did feel like I’d repaid her.”

He fished around in his coat and pulled out a tiny wooden disk, barely as big around as his thumb and carved with intricate patterns. He tapped it twice and the patterns glowed blue. Gwen tensed when she saw it.

“She had a daughter. Cute kid, maybe around ten. She gave me this.” He held it up, and for a horrifying moment she imagined he was going to try and give it to her. She felt the phantom hands of guards dragging her to the dungeon, her terrified pleas falling on deaf ears. She saw her father struck down right before her eyes, imagined Arthur finding this little trace of magic in her home, the betrayal in his eyes. Her breath started coming in short gasps, but before she could push herself away Gwaine lowered his hand, cradling the disk in his palm.

“It’s just a bauble. Doesn’t do anything but look pretty. Just thought you deserved a chance to see some harmless magic too.”

He didn’t seem to expect her to say anything, content to sit in silence after sharing his little story. Gwen didn’t know what to say anyway, didn’t know what she was supposed to have gotten out of this, but as they watched the sun fall lower on the horizon, she found she didn’t mind the company.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Instead of sounding like a broken record by apologizing for taking 800 years to update once again, I'll just say thank you to everyone whose left kudos and comments, and that I hope you enjoyed the longest chapter yet! I liked exploring a Gwen & Gwaine centric dynamic. I think it's more fun to imagine that not everyone in the Round Table became the best of friends right away, but that some of them had to grow on each other.


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